Wild by Skye
by MissAnnThropic
Summary: Back on the road with his brother after the Stanford fire, Sam notices that there’s something different about Dean, and he’s determined to figure out what it is.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Wild by Skye

Author: MissAnnThropic

Spoilers: Pilot

LiveJournal: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot)com

Summary: Back on the road with his brother after the Stanford fire, Sam notices that there's something different about Dean, and he's determined to figure out what it is.

Disclaimer: None of it's mine. I'm just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching DVDs of her favorite shows :(

* * *

As the fire leapt toward him - leapt down, not up – Sam jolted awake with a cry on the tip of his tongue.

He bit back the sound before it could escape. Before all else, he had to maintain control.

It had been three weeks, and he was getting better at not actually crying out for Jessica in the throes of a nightmare. He was still haunted by her in his dreams, his heart still slammed into his throat, and his breath still refused to catch, but in three weeks he learned how to be a true Winchester again. A real Winchester didn't cry out. Didn't show weakness. Didn't feel pain.

Sam felt it all, he felt it so powerfully that his lungs seemed filled with smoke when he bolted awake in the dead of night, but he didn't let the cries pass his lips.

For a few seconds he blinked up into the blackness of their latest motel room. He didn't remember the name of the town they'd stopped in, and he only had a vague idea of the state, but it didn't matter. A motel room was a motel room, same as any of the thousand he had stayed in growing up. He tried to control his breathing. If (by some lucky break) he hadn't woken Dean with his start to consciousness, he had to be careful or his erratic breathing would. Dean's senses were frighteningly acute when it came to any hints of distress in his little brother.

Sam had to be twice as stoic as any other Winchester, because Dean made it necessary. If Sam so much as _paused_ wrong, Dean was on him. For someone who didn't like being asked if he was all right, he sure threw the question at Sam a lot. Dean could be relentless. Even when Dean never said a word, Sam could _feel_ Dean watching him. That was his big brother, prime to put Sam in a corner and hold off the world with only his body as a shield.

Sam didn't want to need that kind of protection. He wasn't a kid anymore. Sam had expected so much of Dean when they were growing up, had asked so much of his brother (only four years older) that he hadn't even realized at the time was far and beyond what a brother should be asked to give… he didn't want to keep asking of his brother like that. Dean had more than earned a break from being Sam's protector and counselor.

Sam took a few testing deep breaths and found his heartbeat slowly returning to a calmer pace. The ceiling above him was blessedly fire-free, and the only sound he could discern was the loud rattle of their room's air conditioner on its last leg.

Tentatively, Sam turned his head to look toward his brother.

Dean's bed was empty.

Sam lay perfectly still and listened for sounds from the bathroom. He was listening for retching. Outside of a threat (which Sam could not detect, and even his years at Stanford had not dulled that Winchester sixth sense to danger), sickness or injury were about the only thing that woke Dean in the dead of night.

There was nothing from the direction of the bathroom, not even the normal sound of running water. Sam sat up and craned to get a better view. There was no light coming from underneath the door, either.

"Dean?" Sam called out.

Nothing.

Sam got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom door. He pushed it open only to reveal a lavatory as empty as Dean's bed.

Becoming concerned, Sam went to the switch by the door and turned on the room light. Dean's bed was rumpled. He'd been in it (Sam had honestly fallen asleep before Dean turned in, so the state of the sheets was his only way of knowing if Dean had used the bed), but the question was where was he now?

Sam turned to the hotel room window and drew back the curtain enough to peer into the parking lot. The moon was full, casting enough light for Sam to make out the cars in the lot.

The Impala was gone.

Sam scowled thoughtfully. He was less panicked to know the car was gone. It was normal enough for Dean to sneak out at odd hours. Thanks to their job, Winchesters kept strange hours and Sam knew what it was like to be beset by restlessness when the rest of the world should be asleep. Sam's answer was usually to go for a run to tire himself out. Dean went for a drive.

Sam turned back to the room and noted Dean's scattered belongings.

He had been here, was coming back, probably took the car out for a spin. He looked for a note scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper; when they were younger, they always left each other notes, even if it amounted to nothing more than 'Run' or 'Beer'. There wasn't a note, but then Sam had to remember Dean had spent two years not having to account for his whereabouts to his little brother. He probably got out of the habit while Sam was at Stanford.

In any case, it wasn't reason enough to call out the dogs yet.

Sam stumbled back to bed, crawled under the covers, and prayed this time he wouldn't dream of Jess pinned to the ceiling and wreathed in flames.

* * *

The next morning, Sam woke to the sound of Dean in the bathroom brushing his teeth, humming to himself some unidentifiable tune. Sam yawned and rolled out of bed. When he came up behind Dean in the open door of the bathroom, Dean caught Sam's reflection in the mirror and gave him a half-nod with a frothy mouth of toothpaste.

Sam picked the sleep out of his eye, waiting for Dean to spit, and asked, "Hey man, where'd you go last night?"

Dean rinsed, spat again, and looked at him. "Huh?"

"Last night?"

"What do you mean? I was here, asleep," Dean answered easily, not a hint of deceit in his voice as he turned back to the sink.

Sam narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to tell Dean that he knew very well he hadn't been, not all night, but stopped himself short. If he told Dean he knew he was lying, Dean would want to know how exactly Sam knew that. Then he'd want to know why Sam had been awake in the middle of the night.

Sam didn't want to have another conversation about his plaguing nightmares about his dead girlfriend. They made him heartsick and his suffering only made Dean twice as watchful of his little brother.

Sam didn't want attention. He wanted to grieve, alone, in private, and on the road with his brother, that meant flying under the radar and being, as best he could manage, invisible.

Dean was back and none the worse for wear, so Sam figured it was just as well to let it go.

With a careless shrug, Sam shouldered his way into the bathroom, shoved Dean out, and turned on the water for a shower.

Through the closed door, Sam heard Dean muttered, "Bitch."

With a smile, Sam called back, "Jerk," before stripping down and getting into the shower.

To Be Continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Four weeks later, in some shit-hole inn outside of Memphis, Sam rolled over in his sleep and the flare of pain in his hip woke him. He'd caught the claw of a chupacabra on his left hip earlier that day. It wasn't bad, as far as Winchester injuries went. Sam was more pissed that he'd let the creature catch him unaware than he was wounded. Dean had stitched him up, given him a pain killer, and put him to bed. For a while, Sam slept the death-like sleep of the happily medicated. Then the pain medication had worn off and rolling on to his left side jerked Sam wide awake.

He hissed involuntarily into the night then froze when he came around to the fact it was the middle of night.

'Don't wake Dean,' his mind chanted. Dean hadn't been wounded as badly as Sam, but he'd taken his fair share of abuse on this one. The chupacabra was the biggest Sam had ever seen, and with its size it had developed a matching attitude. It had been intent on evading the hunters, and when that failed it the beast had fought back. Both brothers felt its goat-sucking wrath. By the time Dean finally had it cornered and helpless, he took considerable pleasure in killing it.

Something hurting his little brother brought out that bloodthirstiness in Dean.

Sam rolled flat on to his back with care, mindful of Dean resting only a few feet away. He lay with arms open wide and feet almost hanging off the end of the too-short bed.

Despite the fact Dean had to be dead tired, Sam was surprised he hadn't already been greeted with a sleepy 'Sammy?' at his waking in pain. Dean's instincts were fine-tuned like that… seemed Sam had to be damn lucky to skirt Dean's notice when it came to sickness or pain.

But as Sam lay there riding out the sting in his hip from putting his weight on the sutured cut, he didn't hear a sound from Dean's side of the room.

Sam counted himself lucky to duck his brother's attention until he realized it wouldn't matter. There was no way he'd be getting back to sleep without another pill. Sam had to figure chupacabras were somehow related to cats; they had the same serrated claws that left scratches that, no matter how minor, burned like a son of a bitch. He could sleep through it, but only if he could get past the road bump of initially slipping into unconsciousness.

No way Dean wouldn't stir at Sam's midnight fumbling around for a pain pill.

With a stifled groan, Sam levered himself up out of bed, favoring his left side, and scanned the room for the direction of the bathroom (the last place he vaguely remember Dean having the first aid kit).

Instead, his gaze stopped on the unoccupied second bed in the motel room.

He hadn't woken Dean because Dean wasn't there.

Holding off on thinking the worst, Sam went through the missing brother routine. He checked the bathroom, checked the state of Dean's belongings scattered throughout the room, then went to the window and looked outside. The moonlight painted all the cars in the lot a watery silver but one… the one car that wasn't there.

Dean was gone and so was the Impala.

Sam sighed in frustration and annoyance. Dean was hurt, Sam _knew_ that, and he should be in bed resting. His brother was a nazi when it came to forcing Sam to get some rest and take it easy when he was injured, but Dean didn't seem to think the same common sense applied to him.

Sam dug out a pain pill, swallowed it with a gulp of water, then settled himself gingerly back into bed to await sleep.

As he did, he rehearsed the lecture he would give Dean the next morning.

* * *

Sam tried to make his case that Dean was being negligent of his own body's need for recuperation, but Dean's downright jaunty step and sunny attitude the next morning stole a lot of Sam's thunder. How Dean managed to recharge his batteries and, not the least, heal damn near to fighting fit overnight when he had denied himself a decent night's sleep was an irksome mystery that had Sam scowling the whole day as he shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the Impala. He cast Dean several sour, vicious looks, but Dean had only offered a smile, turned up the volume on the cassette player, and sang louder with the music.

Sam rolled his eyes but could not deny that Dean in a good mood was infectious. By the time they stopped again for the night, Sam had decided he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth and opted to just enjoy it.

To Be Continued….


	3. Chapter 3

The next month his excuse went by the name of Rosalita. Sam had no idea who she was or where Dean might have met her (the brothers had been working almost shoulder to shoulder for days on a poltergeist case), but Dean stole off under cover of night, and Sam only knew about it because he'd woken up as Dean was sneaking back into the room at the crack of dawn.

Sam had glowered. Dean just gave an airy shrug, a trade-mark cocky smile, tossed Sam a bagel, and made up a jingle about Rosalita, the Hot Senorita.

Sam was quiet as he packed up his things after breakfast. He was watching his brother, puzzled. Dean was walking on sunshine. His mood was almost creepily good. Not at all in character for the broody, flippant Dean Winchester. Sam considered slipping some holy water in Dean's coffee just to be sure.

He didn't ask Dean what had him hitting the proverbial happy gas, because Sam had just about enough of the Rosalita, the Hot Senorita ditty. Sam made the mistake of asking for details about one of Dean's sexual exploits once, when he was a curious teenager, and he'd learned his lesson. It only reinforced what Sam had always known – his brother was a very twisted individual.

But Sam honestly doubted there _was_ a Rosalita. He couldn't exactly say why, but the pep to Dean's step wasn't the kind of bounce that usually followed a night of fantastic sex. His brother had enough of those, and Sam had been present for the afterglow of accomplishment enough that Sam could tell the swagger of Big Brother Victorious when he saw it. This lightness of step wasn't that.

But Dean had his cover story, and there was no way Sam was going to risk hearing about his brother's sexual deviancy to root out the truth. Which Dean no doubt knew and was probably the point of the Rosalita cover.

But what did Dean need a cover for? Sam couldn't imagine what Dean would feel the need to hide from his brother. They were almost uncomfortably close and had been as long as he could remember. The constant moving when they were kids, always sharing a room and more times than not a bed, almost guaranteed they would be plugged in to each other's personal lives.

As Dean gunned the accelerator and sped the Impala on to the highway, Sam recounted every other instance in his recent memory when Dean had been on Cloud Nine like this, and it was last month. Then again, the month before that.

Sam turned that detail over and stored it away. It would need some closer inspection. Sam could be patient; sometimes that was the only way to crack the marble that was Dean Winchester.

* * *

By the next month, Sam was expecting Dean to sneak out in the middle of the night. He wasn't mad so much as perplexed.

"I don't remember you being _this_ flighty before I left for Stanford," Sam pointed out that afternoon. Sam had puzzled out a pattern to Dean's cyclical rhythm, because it was researching a mystery… what Sam did best. The day leading up to one of Dean's nocturnal ventures, he would be restless. Dean wasn't one for being idle anyway, but there was a different flavor to his energy on those days. Almost fidgety, like Dean couldn't quite stand being stuck in his own skin.

It was kind of like the way their dad used to get when they'd stayed in one place too long or hadn't found a decent hunt in a few months.

At least Dean didn't get testy and argumentative about it, like John had. Sam remembered the worst fights he had with his father were when John was desperate to uproot and move on and Sam would give anything to stay.

Dean, sitting at the diner table across from Sam with one knee bouncing erratically and his knuckles drumming a nameless beat on the tabletop, looked at Sam at his observation. "Huh?"

Sam smirked. "Come on, Dean… you know what I mean."

Dean's lips tugged in a fleeting smirk. It wasn't really in answer to Sam's comment, but more of a sudden desire to use different facial muscles. It was a meaningless expression that drove strangers batty because they didn't know the idiosyncrasies of Dean. They didn't know when to take the measure from his eyes or his smile.

Dean picked up a french fry from his nearly untouched plate, stabbed flaccidly at his burger, then dropped the fry. "Going to have to give me a little more to go on, College Boy."

Sam sighed. "I mean that ever since…" Sam stopped, because he couldn't bring up Jessica. It would derail him, and he meant to get some explanations from Dean. He'd let it go long enough because he'd been so wrapped up in his own grief. He was moving on, was _determined_ to, and that meant sorting out this new Dean quirk. "… since I left Stanford, you've up and disappeared in the middle of the night at least once a month. It's almost like clockwork."

Dean's fidgeting stopped abruptly and he stared at Sam. In that instant, Sam couldn't read the expression on his older brother's face, which was surprising. He knew Dean's looks and body language by heart. Something he couldn't place and categorize was unnerving.

"I didn't know I had to get you to sign a permission slip for field trips," Dean said sarcastically, but there was a hint of steel in his tone. He was cagey. Sam's instincts were right; this _was_ something.

"You _don't_, but I'd like to know what's going on with you." Sam frowned. "You didn't used to take off in the middle of the night."

Dean flashed him a cocky smile that spoke of so many nightly liaisons with any number of ladies starting when Dean was fourteen. "Sure I did."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, you _did_, but this is different."

Dean was fidgeting again. "Different how?" He didn't seem to be taking Sam seriously anymore. Sam may as well have been talking about kittens.

Sam knew he'd lost the conversation. "I don't know, just _different_." He chewed on his lip as he tried to come up with a way to say _how_ it was different. It was more a sense than anything, a feeling that for a few days every month Dean wasn't exactly his brother.

It was like some kind of mystic PMS, but Sam had a feeling he'd eat a knuckle sandwich if he put it that way.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. You finished? I'm ready to get out of here."

Sam eyed Dean's nearly untouched food and frowned.

On their way out of the diner, Sam looked at Dean over the roof of the Impala and said, "I know you're taking off tonight."

Dean froze, fixed Sam with another inscrutable stare, then he mustered up a smug smile that smothered anything real beneath it. "Then don't wait up."

Sam didn't. And he didn't say a word when Dean strolled in at dawn, looking rejuvenated rather than drained by the all-nighter.

He didn't say anything, but he had far from given up figuring out the mystery of Dean's recurring late-night activities.

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Kind of a short chapter, but given the way the next ones need to break, this was the only practical solution. As a general rule (owing to my techno-idiocy), my LJ usually reads a little ahead in Wild by Skye than this website does. FYI.

* * *

When the same time rolled around the following month, Dean was done pretending he wasn't going to vanish. Sam knew he was going to leave, and Dean preferred the quiet understanding to flimsy subterfuge.

As dusk approached, Dean was pacing the motel room, hands slapping a broken drum solo against his jean-clad thighs. Sam was watching him closely from his bed, brow knit in consternation and book in hand all but forgotten.

When Dean finally lost his patience and grabbed up the keys to the car, Sam piped in, "I'll go with you." He had no idea _where_ he was volunteering to go, but he had to figure anywhere would be acceptable, at least once, just to solve the mystery.

Dean spun to face him, frozen mid-stride to the door. He blinked at Sam, hesitated half a second, then the mask slipped into place. Dean smirked. "Dude, I don't go for that ménage a trois stuff; I don't know what kind of crap you got up to in college, but keep it on campus."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean and snarled, "Jerk."

"Bitch… later, Sammy." Before Sam could make any further appeals to tag along, Dean was gone.

Sam sat in the silence of the room staring mutinously at the door a moment, then with a resolute slam of the book in his hands he got up and fished a binder and pen from his bag.

He sat down at the small room table, turned to a fresh page, and wrote the first possibility down to the big question 'what is up with Dean':

_Woman_

That wasn't very likely, given the fact they were never in the same place any given month. If Dean had found himself a chick he thought worth seeing repeatedly, he'd be making sure they were in a certain town for their agreed rendezvous.

He drew a line through his first scribble and wrote another below it.

_Hunt_

Sam stared at that scrawled possibility for a few moments. He might believe that one. He might suspect Dean was secretly working his own hunt on the sly, as it were, _if_ Dean had been picking all their hunts so far. Sam picked some of them, sending them to scattered locations in the United States. If Dean was tracking something on his spare time, it was something that could be hunted anywhere in the continental United States, because Dean never objected to Sam's proposed hunts on the basis of their location.

Still… Sam left that possibility untouched and moved down to the next line of the notebook paper.

_Possessed_

That would explain the strange behavior, but then Dean had been handling the kind of material that made demons shriek bloody murder. Silver knives, holy water, crucifixes… not to mention Dean crossed salt lines unhindered. It also wouldn't account for the fact that aside those one or two days of the month, Dean was his normal self.

With a smirk, Sam wrote

_PMS_

Until Dean saw fit to come clean and tell Sam what was going on, he'd leave that one on the list. Just as a matter of principle. Served Dean right for keeping secrets.

With a dark frown, Sam slowly wrote the next thought that came to mind.

_Dad_

What if Dean was working with Dad all this time? He wouldn't put it past their father to shadow them, meeting with Dean in secret so the two of them could hunt down the yellow-eyed demon together while stupid, gullible Sammy was left behind. As if he were still a kid they had to leave in the Impala with a .45 for protection while the men went out and killed the bad thing.

Sam was getting mad just thinking about it, until his rational mind told him that Dean was just as worried about their father's prolonged absences as Sam was. No way his brother was faking that glint of fear in his eyes when they talked about Dad.

Hesitantly, Sam drew a line through that. Then he stopped, pressed the tip of the pen into the paper, and wrote _Dad_ in again and left it.

Those were the obvious candidates, and he'd more or less ruled them out (for the most part).

Sam tapped the end of his pencil against the notebook, mulling over the other potential explanations. He looked at the facts. Dean was going out at night and wouldn't let Sam know why or where he was going.

_Double life_

Sam pursed his lips and chewed on the pen cap. Their everyday lives were the kind of things double lives were made of, so exactly what kind of double life could Dean possibly be leading? He tried to imagine Dean sneaking out to coach pee wee football and snorted.

Sam dropped down a line.

_Batman_

Okay, now he was just being ridiculous. Sam scratched out Batman and returned to the serious question of what his brother could be up to.

He keyed in on the pattern of Dean's disappearing act – once a month – and he paused. Something occurred to him. He got up, went to the window, and looked out at the night sky and its luminous full moon.

Sam returned to the table and wrote in the notebook

_Werewolf_

Sam's face screwed. That didn't really wash for the same reasons Sam wasn't leaping for the holy water with his brother. Dean handled plenty of silver on a regular basis, and it never bothered him. Besides which, deaths followed werewolves around, not vice versa, and there were never more people dead for Dean's arrival than there had already been before they got there for the hunt. The _only_ thing that fit with that theory was the lunar cycle, which wasn't exactly a certifiable smoking gun given the lack of all other usual indicators of a werewolf's presence. He would chalk the phase of the moon up to pure coincidence.

Sam moved on to the next possibility.

_Drugs_

Sam pondered that a while. It would explain Dean's unusual behavior, and it wouldn't require him to have adverse reactions to supernatural safeguards. Just because Dean's skin didn't sizzle when he spilled holy water on it didn't rule out drug abuse. Then again, Dean's behavior was remarkably _usual_ aside from those couple of days every month. If Dean was hooked on something and slipping out to meet with a dealer for more, he wasn't exhibiting any of the typical symptoms of addiction.

The PMS theory was starting to look pretty good.

_Job_

Sam smiled faintly, despite himself. That possibility brought back memories. When they were young, Dean had taken odd jobs, sometimes without letting their father know about it, to earn extra money. Not to buy video games or pocket money to blow on a date with some chick, but for groceries for them or clothes and school supplies for Sam. Their father hadn't always had the cash for the essentials, and Dean made damn sure he could take up the slack. He made sure Sam was provided for as best he could, and Sam confessed that was pretty damn well. He might not have the coolest stuff that all the other kids had, but the things he really _needed_ Dean made sure he had.

Almost absently, Sam wrote on the next line

_Mind my own business_

His brother had done plenty and more for him his entire life; if he wanted to have one little secret, one thing to call his own, what business was it of Sam's?

But then again, Dean had been the one to drag him back into his life. Sam had been doing fine on his own in California. He'd been happy. He had a future, a normal life waiting to welcome him, and he had a great girlfriend that he fully intended to marry one day. Then Dean hauled him back into the world of hunting, almost literally by the scruff of his neck, when he pulled him from his burning apartment.

Sam by no means blamed Dean for what happened, but the fact remained that Dean was the driving force for Sam spending almost every waking hour with his brother. When they lived that enmeshed in each other's lives (so much that it was really a joke to claim they _had_ separate lives), one brother's affairs became the other's. That was just the way it worked. The Winchesters were accountable to no one except each other.

It was a twisted sort of logic, but what about their entire lives wasn't twisted?

No closer to figuring out the mystery, Sam tossed the pen down, closed up his notebook, and stuffed it back into his bag. He'd have to gather more clues, watch his brother closer, before he could make any headway. He took some small comfort in the fact Dean didn't come back from his nocturnal jaunts sick or injured. To the contrary, he came back all shades of perky and upbeat.

Hardly a capital crime, though damn peculiar for a Winchester.

Sam watched some television, read, and generally tried not to think overly much about where Dean might be and what he might be doing.

It was a relief when he could legitimately call it a night, crawl into bed, and know he'd have a cheerful, energetic brother to look forward to in the morning.

To Be Continued…


	5. Chapter 5

It was when the next month rolled around that Sam was actually _worried_ about Dean and his now-typical once a month nightly disappearing acts. Up until then, it had been a very low-key event in their lives. Routine now, and hardly more disruptive than changing the oil in the car.

They were in New York City taking care of a ghost problem plaguing one unlucky family. The salt and burn wasn't complicated in and of itself, but the research to find the right remains had tripped them up. A hunt that should only have taken one day took four.

Sam was mightily distracted the last day of their frustrating hunt spending his time watching his brother. Something was definitely off. Dean was cranky and irritable. He snapped impatiently at everyone and everything in sight. When a dog on the street took an immediate dislike to Dean (Sam figured even animals could sense the monumentally foul mood of his big brother), Dean had yelled _at the dog_. The animal turned tail and ran, and Sam could only stare. Dean generally _liked_ dogs, in fact a damn sight more than people (as long as said people were not leggy brunettes with big boobs, who won hands down every time).

This time around, Dean was barely civil, and he was twitchy as hell. Sam was actually leery of him having a weapon.

Sam knew it was the onset of _whatever_ took hold of Dean at the full moon. Sam hated tying Dean's behavior with the lunar cycle (since he'd concluded it was not a determining factor in whatever was going on with Dean), because as a hunter an association with the full moon made him think the worst, but it was the easiest way for Sam to keep track of Dean's strange pattern.

Sam had never seen Dean so touchy before. He was on a hair trigger. This was different than every other month before. Then, Dean had been restive, fidgety, hyped up, but not _aggressive_. This time he was in a pissy mood to outdo all pissy moods in the history of pissiness.

Sam might have teased Dean about it if he wasn't sure he'd get his block knocked off for his trouble.

Dean reminded Sam of their father when they were growing up and a hunt had gone bad and John drowned his failure in liquor. Sam used to be more scared of his dad than the monsters those nights; he remembered climbing into bed with Dean and fisting Dean's shirt in his tiny hands while their dad stomped around in the other room. Dean used to shush him and promise Sam nothing would get him, _nothing_, because Dean wouldn't let it.

Sam slammed a mental door on those black memories and returned to the immediate concern. Dean.

Dean was going to hurt someone, and the later the day got the worse it got. Sam could see it. Dean was waiting to explode.

Ghost finally put to rest, the family was immensely grateful to the brothers for ridding them of their supernatural problem, though they addressed all that gratitude to Sam. They could see Dean was not to be spoken to or touched as he paced behind his brother like a caged and heckled tiger. If anything, Sam thought the family sent him sorrowful looks that he had to leave with the man.

Out of kindness, the family offered to have them stay for dinner. Normally, Dean would jump at the offer of free food (home-cooked, no less), but this time he was halfway out the door with just a grunt of impatience.

Sam accepted a small sum of cash instead. He hated taking anything for the service they did, a few twenties seemed to cheapen the act of saving lives, but the fact was that in their unappreciated line of work money was never to be passed up. It might be the only honest money they came by for months. To ease any sense of guilt, Sam tried to think of him and his brother as exterminators, and if a man with the nametag "EARL" on his shirt could get money for ridding a house of roaches, Sam figured there was nothing wrong in accepting a little cash for dispelling evil spirits.

When Sam left the family's apartment, Dean was at the car but not in it. He was too jittery to sit still and wait for his brother. He was walking circles around the Impala, face set furiously in a scowl.

"Dean…"

"About time," he snarled. "Get in the car. We're getting out of here."

Sam frowned and stopped stock still on the sidewalk. "Dean… man, what is wrong with you?"

Dean shot him a murderous look.

"You were really rude to those people," Sam lectured.

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry, Sam. Here I thought wasting the ghost would be enough, but you're right, let me go back in there and make polite conversation and compliment their doilies."

"That's beside the point-"

"_Get in the car_." Dean turned to slide in behind the wheel.

When Sam didn't jump to obey, Dean slammed a fist on the roof of the car. It gave a loud, resounding '_thud_' and Sam flinched. He gaped. Dean hit his car.

Dean glowered, shifted, then looked around… down the street crowded with apartment buildings, up at the skyscrapers cramming the view of the darkening sky, and at the fast-approaching dusk.

Dean clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said with almost painful effort at sounding calm. "I was out of line. Can. We. Go. Now?"

Sam blinked, speechless, but he moved to do as Dean had so painstakingly asked. Shocked and mute, he got in the car and watched Dean almost throw himself behind the wheel, start the car, and peel out in his haste to leave.

As they sped out of the city, Sam prayed they didn't get pulled over. Dean might just rip the cop's head off for getting in the way.

As the city finally began to shrink in the rearview mirror, Dean growled, "Never again."

Sam looked over at his brother, who was glued to the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip.

"What?"

"_No more cities_," Dean hissed, and Sam was baffled. Dean had never freaked out about big cities before. They'd lived in a few growing up, and it had never been a problem.

They'd barely passed the suburbs leaving New York City and found themselves in familiar territory – open roads with more space than buildings – when Sam spared a glance toward the sky. The stars were coming out on a maroon and cobalt backdrop. The moon, full and radiant, was doing its damnedest to play the role of the sun in a recurring monthly performance.

Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was rigid behind the wheel. His hands were still clenched in straining fists around the steering wheel. His face was flushed, and Sam could see that he'd broken out in a sweat.

"Dean… what's wrong?" Sam tried to shift across the bench seat closer to his brother.

Dean's sharp, wilting glare in his brother's direction stilled Sam at once.

It stilled Sam from reaching out, but he didn't ignore that there was something very, very wrong with Dean.

"Hey, man… I think we should stop." He thought Dean might be about to be sick. Could he be having a panic attack? What the hell had shaken him up so badly about being in the city?

Sam was worried, confused, and quickly becoming scared.

"You gotta take a leak?" Dean ground out.

"Uh… yeah." If that's what would make Dean stop.

Without another word, Dean pulled over at the next diner they saw.

Sam kept a close eye on Dean the whole time as they got out of the car and headed inside.

Dean looked even worse under the lights.

"Hit the head," he said brusquely, before Sam could start to question him, "I'll get us a table and we'll get something to eat."

Sam nodded and headed toward the restrooms in the back.

He rehearsed just what he would say to try and get past Dean's defensiveness, and when he was fairly confident he could get at least a word in edgewise, he headed back into the diner and scanned the room for his brother.

Nothing.

He glanced out the window and saw the car was still there.

Sam looked around the diner again. Still no Dean.

"You lost something, sugar?" a woman's voice beside him said.

Sam looked over at a waitress, middle-aged with kind eyes.

"Uh… yeah, my brother."

"You Sam?"

Sam blinked. "Yeah."

She nodded. "Your brother came up to the counter right after you two came in, wanted me to tell you he had something he had to take care of, seemed pretty important. Anyway, he left you the keys to your car on that first table." She gave him a smile and moved off to take someone's order.

Sam found the table and the keys to the Impala resting atop a napkin with Dean's handwriting scrawled on it.

_had to run. get a room. Dean_

Sam pocketed the keys with one hand and crumpled the napkin in his other hand. Dean had just left the car keys and ditched. Where the hell had he gone? Where _could_ he go on foot? What could he possibly need to 'take care of'?

Sam spent three hours driving around, looking for Dean as though he were a lost family dog.

Dean was no where to be found.

Frustrated, tired, and hungry, Sam finally went back to the diner where Dean had bailed on him, got some dinner, and found the closest motel to the diner that he could, figuring it would be the easiest for Dean to find.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

* * *

Dean had no trouble finding him the next morning. Sam stepped out of the motel room shortly after dawn to see Dean leaning against the hood of the car sipping at a cup of coffee.

Sam froze and stared at his brother.

Dean, as though there was absolutely nothing amiss, glanced over at him then looked down at the cup. "This coffee is awful. Do yourself a favor and skip the morning java."

Sam just continued staring. Dean looked completely normal, as though yesterday's cut and run, the day before filled with hostility and agitation, as if the entire last two days had not even happened. He was just _Dean_ again.

Now that he wasn't filled with terror anymore, Sam's temper was boiling.

Dean frowned at him. "What?"

"That's it? After yesterday, all you have to say is 'skip the coffee'?"

Dean's eyes went cold, but his voice still played the game. "Just trying to watch out for you, bro, but if you want to swig this hot motor oil, be my guest."

Sam lost his veneer of control. "Dean… what the hell is going on with you?"

"Sam," he said in that dangerous voice that mimicked their father's so well.

"No. I'm not going to ignore this anymore. You _scared_ me yesterday."

"Come on, don't be a drama queen," Dean said.

"This isn't a joke, Dean. You were haired out yesterday. I thought you were going to implode or something. Then you just run off? Where the hell did you go?"

"That's none of your business."

"Yes, it is! It's my business because I'm your brother and I'm worried about you."

"Well, don't be."

Sam, furious and fed up, turned on his heel and stomped back to his motel room. He threw open the door and went straight for his things. He began to shove his few belongings into his duffel.

Dean took his sweet time following Sam into the room. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked flatly.

"If you won't trust me then we shouldn't hunt together," Sam answered sharply.

"Please… you're making a big deal out of nothing."

Sam threw the shirt in his hand down and rounded on his brother. "_Nothing_? Man, I have to trust you to have my back. I have to know you're with me, one hundred percent, or it becomes dangerous. Dad taught us that… don't hunt with someone you can't explicitly trust at your back. It's simple, Dean. You don't trust me."

With slow, precise movements, Dean stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His eyes never left Sam. After a thick silence, Dean asked lowly, "You think I'd ever let anything hurt you?"

The wind went out of Sam's sails. "That's… that's not even the point."

"That is _exactly_ the point. Fine, if you don't think you can trust me to protect you, to kill for you, to _die_ for you, then leave."

Dean's voice was steady, but Sam saw the agony in his eyes. He'd let Sam walk out, but it would destroy him.

Sam dropped down unceremoniously on his bed and let out a shaky breath. "I just want to know what's wrong with you. I want you to trust me to _help_ you."

Sam couldn't bear the look in Dean's face and focused on a stain on the carpet instead.

With quiet steps, Dean crossed the room and crouched down in front of Sam, placing himself into Sam's line of vision. Hesitantly, Sam looked up at his brother.

Dean offered an empty smirk and said softly, "This is _all_ I am going to say about it. If this was something you _could_ help me with, I'd tell you in a second. But you can't, so drop it."

Sam looked away, sick with helplessness. All he took from Dean's words was that there _was_ something wrong with his brother. Something was wrong, and he wouldn't let Sam share the burden.

Dean rose and gave Sam an awkward pat on the shoulder, trying so hard to go back to light and casual. "Let's hit the road."

Sam didn't know what else to do but follow Dean's command. Numbly, he packed up his stuff and got into the car.

Dean put in a Black Sabbath cassette tape, cranked the volume, and pulled out of the motel parking lot and back onto the open roads.

To Be Continued…

* * *

A/N: I know you guys are just about ready to pull your hair out, but your nail-biting patience is going to pay off, because Sam is _really_ close to learning The Truth!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Those of you waiting patiently/impatiently for The Truth about what's going on with Dean will finally be rewarded! Like before, my LJ reads a little ahead of this, for the enterprising readers.

* * *

Sam hated having to staunch the flow of his own blood. It wasn't that he was squeamish; it was just hard to do. Battling blood loss sapped one's strength as a natural law, and it especially sucked having to depend on strength to keep enough pressure on a wound to slow the blood flow.

It was a vicious cycle if there ever was one, and Sam hoped his adrenaline-high held out long enough for him to slow the bleeding enough that he wouldn't bleed out and die. For the moment, he couldn't interrupt Dean to ask him to lend a hand. Even bleeding from a deep cut, Sam was not the top priority of the moment.

Sam pressed his hand as tightly to his side as possible, clamping his fingers over his wound, and watched as Dean lay down a salt line around them.

The woods around them were frighteningly still. No birds singing to the encroaching sunset, no crickets starting up their nightly symphony. The creatures of the night sensed the evil and had gone elsewhere.

Sam would sure like to follow their example and get the hell out of Dodge. This hunt had gone wrong fast and it looked like it was going to stay that way until dawn.

They had come out into the forest expecting black dogs. The victims (four in the last year) had been torn up so savagely that revved-up, sadistically-enhanced animal attacks seemed the only explanation.

They found the spirits of a regular family of Freddy Kruegers instead. Seemed that the family that slayed and cannibalized together stayed together, even after death.

Sam still wasn't ruling out that the Woodland Kruegers didn't have a demonic family dog, too.

Sam and Dean had been in over their heads and knew it the second the spirits coalesced around them. There were too many to take on with rock salt and iron. This was the kind of job that had to be approached as an attack on the source from the get-go.

They fought their way through the throng, blasting a hole in the ring of spirits with rounds of rock salt, headed for the Impala and a strategic withdrawal, but Sam didn't side-step a limb-turned-spear fast enough. He _was_ fast enough to avoid being outright impaled by it, but the gash it opened in his side sent him to his knees in an explosion of searing pain.

Dean hauled him to his feet and half-dragged his brother as far as he could, but the vicious Donner family would regroup faster than the boys could get back to the car, given Sam's compromised condition, and after the rounds of rock salt shot at them, the spirits wouldn't be happy.

Instead of getting caught out with their pants down, Dean propped Sam against a tree trunk, dug into his bag, and pulled out the bag of salt. Knowing what Dean had in mind, Sam laboriously bent his knees and drew his legs toward his body, making himself as small as possible. At six foot four, taking up a small amount of space was not easy, but it was imperative that Sam do his best.

One thing they _did_ have working in their favor… these particular spirits only appeared at or close to night. The nocturnal pattern had been the main reason the Winchester brothers suspected black dogs in the first place, but this family seemed to abhor daylight for whatever reason. That was good news. If they could make it through the night, the spirits should disappear and Sam and Dean could limp back to the car without the fear of woodland projectiles.

Now all they had to do was wait it out.

Using the last of the bag to do it, Dean made a ring of salt around where Sam was slumped against the tree holding his side. Sam's pulse was beating hollowly in his throat and temples. His breath was shaky and his body seemed a contrast of fiery hot and icy cold.

Sam wished the shock of blood loss would catch up to his actual wound so he might get some relief from the pain.

Dean tossed the empty bag aside and came to crouch next to Sam. "Let me see," he said gruffly, and Sam gratefully moved his hand aside and let Dean examine the damage.

"Ah, hell," Dean hissed as he prodded the gash. The combat medic-style examination in the quickly fading light sent renewed lances of pain through Sam's side.

"Cut it out," Sam slurred.

"Someone already tried, that's the problem. Personally, I'd like to keep your kidneys just where they are," Dean answered dryly.

Sam snorted, reminded himself to find that funny later, and tried to breathe through the pain.

Dean took over the job of stopping the bleeding, and Sam hissed as his big brother's vice-like grip pinched over the wound.

"Sorry," he whispered gruffly.

"S'kay… how's it look?" His heart was still pounding in his chest, but not as fast as it was before when they were beating a hasty retreat through the trees.

"Looks like a family of spirits that has a matchbook with their name on it," Dean growled.

Sam tried, and failed, to laugh.

Dean's voice softened. "I think you'll be all right. Get you out of here in the morning, clean this out and stitch it up, should be fine. We've had worse, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes languidly. "Yeah, sure." Bitch of it was, that was true. All of the Winchesters had been injured worse and lived. He trusted Dean's assessment that this time he would live. It would just hurt like hell for a while before he was back to fighting fit.

With the relief of knowing he wouldn't actually die, the terror ebbed and in its wake came exhaustion. The body put itself through the wringer if it thought it might be dying, and the crash when the crisis was over was something else. Sam closed his eyes, momentarily surrendering to it.

For a while, the two of them sat like that. Sam regrouping while Dean pressed down fiercely on Sam's injury to stem the blood flow.

Sam began to drift. Not so much in sleep, but in the haze of knowing the universe only to the extent that it registered to his battered body. He felt safe enough to let himself float knowing Dean was there.

He noted the sun vanishing, gradually but steadily, only as the light penetrating through his eyelids dimmed.

Tugging him back from the void, Sam felt Dean's hand on his face, touching his neck to check his pulse, then migrating to his cheek, a hot patch of flesh against flesh. "You with me, Sam?"

Sam mumbled, "Mmm… am I that shocky?"

"Huh?"

"Your hand's… hot. Didn' think I w's that cold."

Dean's hand quickly disappeared, and Sam cracked an eye open to look at his brother. Dean was tense. "It's not you, it's me," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Sam forced himself to focus his wavering attention on his brother. "You sick?" he asked in a drunken voice.

Dean's lips twitched tightly, his expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. He didn't say anything. Sam almost pressed for an answer, but decided there was little point. If Dean _was_ coming down with something, there was nothing they could do about it until the morning; the Winchester emergency supplies didn't include something as tame as flu medicine.

For a few minutes the brothers were quiet, each listening to the sounds of the forest around them for any sign of the spirits. The wildlife was still conspicuously absent, meaning the spirits were still there and exerting their repelling force on nature, but none ventured close enough to the circle of salt for Dean or Sam to see them. Apparently they were smart as well as savage and did not quickly forget that the Winchesters had weapons that actually worked against them.

In that time of silent waiting, Sam felt better by the minute. Dean had stopped the bleeding, and without the work of his heart pouring out on to the ground, Sam's head started to clear. That he was lying still and not running or having to fight for his life helped, too.

The pain became a hot, dull throb in his side, but Sam actually welcomed that. He took comfort in the fact he wasn't slipping farther and farther into confusion and lethargy. Awareness and pain, oddly enough, were good things. Shock abated and gave Sam back the majority of his faculties, even if they left him all too aware of his own battered body.

He sat with eyes closed and head leaned back and resting against the tree behind him. He listened, straining to pick up any sound, but all he could hear was his own breathing. There wasn't even a breeze to rustle the leaves or, thankfully, their salt line.

"I think they're holding off," Sam mumbled.

Dean grunted.

The brothers spent so much time together, all day every day, that they learned each other's body language, every tiny aspect of the other, with frightening precision. Sam knew something was wrong just from the pitch of Dean's noise.

Sam opened his eyes and looked toward his brother.

Dean was kneeling near Sam (he had to in order to stay in the salt circle), attention sharply focused on the woods surrounding them. Hard, grim lines etched his face in stark shadows. It was something between the look of intense concentration and pain.

"Are you hurt?" Sam asked suddenly. He'd been so preoccupied with his own injury that he hadn't considered Dean might be hurt, too. He hadn't shown any obvious outward signs of being wounded.

"No."

Even his voice was tense. Sam could see the tightness of Dean's frame in the curve of his back and the shifting of his arm muscles. Sam held his breath to listen and noted Dean was breathing even heavier than he was… Sam, who was the one nursing an injury.

"Dean?" Sam breathed, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.

Dean tensed, looking every bit as hard as stone, and his jaw clenched. "You're okay, Sammy."

That wasn't going to be Sam's question. He wanted to know if _Dean_ was all right. Sam suspected Dean knew that, and his off-target answer was telling.

Sam looked around the forest for signs of anything that might have Dean on edge. Maybe he'd missed a spirit watching them that Dean hadn't wanted to point out, figuring Sam had enough to worry about already.

He didn't see any spirits.

Sam saw a lot of trees, still branches, a looming full moon…

_Full moon_. Sam's tongue stuck in his throat and, for a mindless second, fear gripped him. In all the commotion with the hunt gone bad, he'd forgotten about the time of the month. His pulse quickened again. He didn't know _what_ he was afraid of. He knew only that on this night _something_ happened to Dean.

The shrouded mystery of it only made it more frightening.

"Dean… it's…"

"I know."

Sam looked over at Dean again and his brother was watching him. Dean's body was almost shaking and his eyes feverishly bright.

Sam swallowed thickly, his own hair standing on end. "What… what's going to happen?" he croaked.

Dean was fighting to control his breathing. He grimaced at Sam's question, winced like it was a physical blow, and rocked on the balls of his feet where he squatted next to his brother.

"I can't..." Dean's voice came out tight and thin, broken and pained to be made to say it, "I can't stop it."

"_Stop what_?" Sam was terrified. _What was wrong_?

Dean was sweating. It wasn't even hot outside. If anything, it was on the cool side, and it was getting colder by the minute as night settled in. Despite that, Dean's shirt was sticking to his back and darkening at the armpits.

He shifted uneasily, his entire body a live wire. Sam could almost _feel_ the energy emanating from Dean. It was like a wall of static electricity.

"I won't leave you, Sammy… you're _hurt_… I _can't_ just leave you…" Dean was talking to himself more than he was to Sam. He had to justify staying. He had to prove to himself, to the night, to the silent world holding vigil, that it was his only choice.

"I know," Sam whispered.

Dean turned a mutinous look up at the moon. He looked horrified. Defeated. It was a look of pure despair and anguish painted silver by the moonlight.

"Dean… it's okay," Sam offered gently, not knowing what else he could do.

Dean let out a ragged breath and dropped his chin to his chest. "God, Sammy…"

Sam reached out and dropped his hand on to Dean's back.

Dean flinched away, but not before Sam felt the heat radiating off him.

"_Dean_, you're burning up," Sam said softly, terror lacing his voice.

Dean let out a strangled laugh, bitter and falling brokenly from his lips, and he sat up and peeled the wet shirt off. Dean's upper body shone with sweat. His hair was plastered flat with perspiration.

Sam stared, helpless and afraid. "Jesus, Dean… is this what happens, every time?" It killed him to imagine _this_ happening to his brother every month. His stomach turned at the idea of Dean enduring this agony alone. Why hadn't Dean _said_ something?

Dean sank back to the ground, body shaking - not from the cold, but the jerks and twitches of a body in rebellion. Pain raced along the lines of Dean's body, pulling at sinew and drawing unbidden sounds of pain from his throat.

"Doesn't hurt at all… when I don't fight it," Dean answered between clenched teeth. His hands were in fists in his lap, his knuckles white with the effort.

Sam's eyes stung with tears he would never confess. "Then don't," he whispered hoarsely. "Whatever it is, Dean, don't fight it."

In front of Sam, it hardly seemed an option to give in as far as Dean was concerned. He was fighting. He was waging outright war. His body was the casualty.

Dean struggled to his knees, lurched unexpectedly, and would have fallen into Sam's lap if he hadn't thrown out an arm to brace himself against the tree trunk. He was leaning right over Sam, and the heat coming from his body was dizzying. Sweat was pouring off him. His eyes were clenched shut and his lips pulled back in a grimace of pain.

"_Stop fighting_," Sam begged. He didn't know what would happen to Dean when he stopped resisting, but _anything_ would be better than seeing his brother in so much pain.

Dean opened his eyes, and Sam jerked back. They were the wrong color. In the moonlight, they were almost glowing.

"_Don't be afraid, Sam_," Dean pleaded.

Sam stared up into his brother's eyes, held the gaze even when the shade disturbed him, and said lowly, "I trust you."

Dean drew back from the tree, gave almost a cry of surrender, then he sat down on the forest floor and hastily took off his shoes and socks. Trying not to gape stupidly in confusion, Sam watched his brother struggle out of his pants and underwear, too. In a matter of moments, his brother was crouching naked on his hands and the balls of his feet in the middle of the woods.

Dean's body jerked, shifted under the light of the moon… and then it changed.

Sam stared in horrified shock and fascination as his brother turned into something inhuman before his very eyes. Bone and muscle rearranged itself beneath his skin. Lines and shadows found new homes, new angles to define Dean Winchester. Hair, all shades of gray, grew everywhere.

Then it was over. It lasted so short a time.

Sam involuntarily drew back, trapped from further retreat by the tree at his back, when a wolf, standing where Dean had been, turned its head to look at him.

Sam was a heartbeat away from reaching for the bag lying nearby on conditioned reflex, mind already racing to know what kind of weapon would be needed for this creature, when two things stopped him. His last words to Dean '_I trust you'_ echoing in his head, and the hint of gold in the midst of the wolf's pelt.

Dean's amulet. The necklace he always wore. It was looped around the wolf's neck, gold amulet peeking out through the smoky-colored fur, like a rabies tag on a dog collar.

Sam sat perfectly still and stared at the animal. He couldn't believe it could be Dean. Couldn't accept that his brother was a… what? Shapeshifter? Werewolf?

He _couldn't_ be either. Shapeshifters couldn't hold their shape as long as Dean had been with Sam, even barring these strange full moon excursions. Besides which, Sam knew Dean too well for a shapeshifter to fool him for even close to that long. And as for a werewolf… they weren't actually _wolves_. They were _people_, afflicted people with animalistic appetites and drives and a nasty set of canine teeth and claws. But they didn't literally turn into animals, that was just Hollywood hype.

So what _was_ Dean?

Besides watching him closely with golden eyes.

Sam took a few moments to accept what he'd seen right in front of him. He couldn't afford to deny the obvious, that which he had seen himself and _knew_ to be true, against all logic. His brother had turned into a wolf. His brother _was_ a wolf.

His brother was staring at him with almost sorrowful eyes.

Sam knew he had to say _something_.

"You could have told me, Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean just barely cocked his head, then he turned his attention back to the forest, all senses attentive to any indication that their attackers were nearby.

Sam almost laughed. He had wondered for a moment how much his brother might be _in there_ as this… animal, but Dean's resumption of sentry duty said it all. Despite his shape, he was still Dean, through and through.

Sam tried to stay awake through the night, but the spirits were no shows and the absolute quiet of the woods began to sedate him. Just before he nodded off, the wolf lying guard near his foot looked back at him.

There was something in the gaze that still made Sam feel safe, and he let himself fall asleep propped against the tree.

To Be Continued…


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I know, another short chapter. These are breaking funny. I don't write in chapters (I split a fic into 'chapters' after the story is completed) so I don't know going in that I've got some funky chapter breaks until I actually do it. I promise the next chapter won't be long following this one!

* * *

"Sam."

Sam groggily opened his eyes at his brother's voice. He looked up and saw Dean kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder. Morning had come, and while it was still very early, the forest was awash with the soft light of the rising sun, chasing away the night and, _thankfully_, the evil spirits with it.

For a second, Sam thought he'd had a very weird, very vivid dream, but the amulet hanging from Dean's neck, the detail that had been far too real when it was wrapped around a wolf's neck, made it all rush back at him.

The only thing Sam registered at first was that Dean was himself again.

"Dean!"

His brother's face was guarded. "Coast looks clear… think you're up for getting back to the car?"

Sam stared up at Dean, amazed that he would make _that_ the first topic of conversation after what happened last night.

But a closer look at the 'please don't' light in Dean's eyes made Sam understand why. It would keep.

"Yeah, I think I'm good," Sam answered, and for half a second gratitude flashed through Dean's features when Sam didn't go _there_.

With Dean's help, Sam levered himself up off the ground and hobbled, bent at the waist and favoring his damaged side, in the direction of the Impala. It wasn't far from where they'd stopped. It was laughable in the day, with no spirits chasing them, to think they couldn't make it that much farther last night.

Sam's side told him just how much it _wasn't_ laughable.

Dean took them back to their motel room where he tended to Sam's injury. The wound was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. A pain killer and hot shower did wonders, and Sam was feeling almost decent by the time the medicine kicked in. Then the brothers turned their attention to the problem of dispatching the family of evil spirits that had so unforgivably waylaid them.

Sam wanted to kick himself when he realized just how much they might have found, and how much trouble they would have saved themselves, if they'd done any research beyond the most obvious and likely black dog scenario.

In more ways than one that day, modern technology saved their asses and the hunt. Some digging on the internet yielded the answers to the woodland Krueger family. The family was something of a local legend in the small community that was situated on the outskirts of the forest. Oddly enough, they were not a local legend for being monsters (though the tale of their unfortunate and untimely winter was there, too). While living, the Halderson family had been among the first residents who founded the town. Their homestead was the oldest in the county, the home of the Haldersons still standing after one hundred fifty years, and for those really dorky history buffs there were even GPS coordinates provided online for finding it.

Dean and Sam hiked straight to the decrepit old home and poked around the property until they found the family's private cemetery.

It was, honestly, one of the more gruesome graves Sam had ever had to dig up, and coming from a Winchester that was saying a hell of a lot. The Haldersons, a family of twelve, had been driven to cannibalism one particularly brutal winter. All the family members died around the same time. There weren't several graves; there was one mass grave. Bones of all of the Haldersons, from infants to adults and all the ages in between, were piled on top of each other in a pit.

Sam wondered who was sacrificed first. Did the smallest, the least likely to survive the winter, meet their end first? Or did the parents give their lives for their children, for all the good it did in the end? Had it been like drawing straws, or did anarchy grip the starved family of settlers? Had they died willingly for the sake of the others, or had they torn at each other like wolves?

At the thought, Sam had looked sharply and guiltily at Dean, his back to his little brother as he heaved shovelful after shovelful of dirt to the side.

Sam tried not to think about it and continued digging as best as his injury would allow, though admittedly Dean did most of the grunt work.

The mass grave took all day to dig up. As dusk was creeping dangerously close, they upended their bag of salt and a container of gasoline over the collected remains, struck a match, and watched the bones begin to burn.

Dean's features were savage and vengeful in the flickering flames as they stood over the grave and watched the Haldersons burn, but Sam had stopped being angry at the spirits for hurting him last night. After seeing the fine bones of the babies, he just felt tired and sad.

They got back to the motel room late and neither was in the mood to talk. Dean was tacitly avoiding the elephant in the room, and Sam couldn't shake the haunting images that uncovering the story of the Haldersons had unearthed.

By unspoken agreement, the brothers took their turns in the shower and crawled into the respective beds, anxious to simply put the grueling day behind them. Truthfully, cornering Dean for answers about his _change_ didn't seriously occur to Sam. Finding out what had happened so many years ago to the Haldersons, and seeing the evidence of a _family_ buried together, had been disturbing. He didn't think he could stomach anything more taxing that day. The whole day Dean didn't offer any openings for a heart to heart (if anything he went to great measures _not_ to open that can of worms) about _it_, and for the time being Sam would accept that. He just wanted to sleep. He took another pain pill and waited for the numb, loopy sleep of the medicated to take him.

That night, Sam dreamed of skeletal figures with huge eyes and gaunt features ripping apart infants and dipping the pieces in barbeque sauce.

To Be Continued…


	8. Chapter 8

Sam was awakened by the pain in his side that had been dancing at the edge of his awareness flaring to the forefront of his brain and dragging his consciousness with it. Sam grumbled and tried to shift away from the pain.

"Hold still, Sammy," Dean's gentle voice (the voice of big brother tending to his hurt baby brother) made Sam open his eyes. Dean was standing over his bed, bent over and peeling back the bandage on Sam's cut to examine the wound.

"I can do that," Sam muttered sleepily.

Dean grunted. "Shut up."

Sam nodded, teeth clenched together, and obeyed as best he could.

Rather than try to twist and see his own side, Sam took the measure of the damage from Dean's expression. It was tight, his brother's lips pressed tightly together and the skin around his eyes taut while the light behind them was fiery. Funny thing about Dean's face when Sam was hurt – it was the same face Dean made when he himself was the one injured. The only difference was that there was more anger in the look in Dean's eyes and the set of his jaw when it was Sam battered and bruised.

Roused so recently from sleep (and eager to think about something else other than the sting as Dean freed the bandage), the observation struck Sam as sort of amusing and he smirked.

Dean's eyes flitted from Sam's side to his face when he caught a twitch from the corner of his eye. His brow furrowed further. "You a sadist, man? Why are you smiling that you're hurt?"

"Masochist," Sam mumbled absently. "If I was a sadist, I'd be smiling that _you_ were hurt."

Dean narrowed his eyes a little and turned his attention back to Sam's side. "Really, Sam, I'm a little worried about what your 'college experience' exposed you to."

Sam snorted. "Please, if I learned to be uncomfortably fine with pain anywhere, it was from Da-"

"You're a twisted puppy, dude," Dean interjected before Sam could finish. It was intentional, and Sam knew it. He let it go.

"Is it infected?" Sam asked, though from the type of pain he felt he didn't think so. He knew what an infected would felt like, and it was just shy of utter agony. Even worse, an infection always meant a visit to the hospital, which Winchesters avoided like the plague. The pain Sam was in thankfully wasn't that kind of pain.

"I think you'll live," Dean joked flatly, but that he joked at all said enough. If Dean hadn't been flippant, if he'd stared grimly and his upper lip twitched, Sam knew he was in trouble.

Dean straightened and went to the open first aid kit on the motel room dresser. While his brother gathered the supplies he would need to clean and re-bandage the cut, Sam sat up and propped himself against the headboard, his shirt still hiked up to stay off the wound.

There was a thick, heavy silence in the air and Sam knew Dean was well aware of it.

The silence was last night and _it_. It was Sam's bursting curiosity about _it_ and Dean's absolute resistance to discussing _it_.

Dean was taking his time with the kit. He obviously preferred having his back to Sam; it made the topic (that was practically streaking naked through their room) easier to avoid.

In so many ways, it all still seemed to Sam like a weird, pain-induced dream. His brother couldn't actually turn into a _wolf_… that was just crazy.

But what _wasn't_ crazy, what was all too impossible to forget, had been the pain in Dean's voice, the agony in his face, the heat that had poured off his body in waves. '_Don't be afraid, Sam_.' Dean's desperate plea still rang in Sam's ears.

To hear Dean _beg_…

Dean finally turned around and returned to Sam's beside. Sam shifted over enough to give Dean room to perch on the edge next to him. Dean set the supplies in his loaded hands down on the nightstand and unscrewed the cap on the hydrogen peroxide. He got up again to go into the bathroom and fetch a washcloth… pristine white. Sam couldn't count all the snow-white hotel towels the Winchesters had used to mop up blood. Some families stole hotel towels, the Winchesters changed their color.

As Dean walked back to the bed, Sam was abnormally silent. He was watching his brother, trying to see any difference – anything of the wolf – in the brother he thought he knew backward and forward.

The problem was, Dean moved like a hunter already. It was a stalking kind of walk he'd adopted in adolescence and perfected as he matured. When it needed to be, it was utterly soundless. If Dean was any more of a wolf during the day for his new form, it was impossible to tell it apart from the predator Dean had been raised to be.

When had Dean changed? Sam knew it had to be fairly recently. The more he thought about it, it had to have happened while he was at Stanford. Within the last two years, then, when Sam hadn't been there to watch his brother's back on hunts. It was only since Jess's death that had Sam discerned his brother's monthly vanishing act. That was definitely new.

How? Dean must have been cursed somehow. Maybe run afoul of a witch and was bewitched or under a spell. Maybe he touched something, a spiritual object that he shouldn't have, that conferred some strange symptoms upon him.

Did their father know about Dean's monthly transformation? What did John Winchester think about having a son that turned into a beast? Somehow, Sam couldn't imagine their father taking it well.

What was Dean?

There were so many questions.

Sam watched Dean's pendant sway as his brother moved, tapping lightly against Dean's sternum every now and then as he leaned forward then back to mess with the supplies on the nightstand.

Sam couldn't stop seeing the pendant as it had rested at the throat of a wolf.

He had to know, to understand.

"Dean…" Sam whispered as his older brother was dabbing at the stitched cut with the sizzling peroxide.

Dean straightened his back and slowly looked up to face Sam. His shoulders were tense and his face unreadable. Dean had to know from the tone of Sam's voice what he was going to ask.

Sam waited, his face imploring.

Dean didn't move for a moment, frozen as though turned to stone, then he went back to the task of patching Sam up. He was intent on that chore to the exclusion of all else, and Sam waited for him to finish.

When Dean put on the last piece of tape holding the fresh bandage in place, Sam tried again, "Dean… we need to talk…"

Dean sighed and turned his head to look away. Even in profile, Sam could see the distress in his brother's expression. "Yeah, I know."

Sam pulled down his shirt and fumbled with choosing which question of the thousand he had to ask first. "When… I mean, how… _what_ are you?"

Dean winced and rose from the bed to put some distance between them. Sam eased himself up into a more upright position and waited anxiously.

Dean turned back to Sam, his eyes tortured, then he raked a hand through his short hair. "I'm your _brother_, Sam." The voice was almost frail, as though Dean's greatest fear was being realized in Sam's words.

Sam realized he had phrased his question poorly. He made it seem that Dean was now something other than a brother to him.

"I know, Dean, but that wasn't what I… of course you're my brother, but you're more than that."

Dean went forlornly to his own bed, sat down, and looked across the short distance between beds to where Sam sat. Sam shifted to face Dean.

Dean struggled with his control (over _what_, Sam wasn't sure) for what seemed minutes before he answered haltingly, "I'm a lycanthrope."

One thing to be said for Sam Winchester, he knew his supernatural lore. Dean's answer had him confused. "How can you be a werewolf?"

"I'm not," Dean said lowly. "I said I'm a lycanthrope."

Sam frowned. "They're both words for the same thing." It was a statement offered up for correction, and Sam's uncertain tone betrayed that.

Dean smirked, but it looked sickly and weary rather than Dean's usual cocky and teasing. "No, actually they're not… but I thought so, too, until…" Dean stopped, his expression closed, and he shifted uneasily on the mattress.

Sam shifted closer to the edge of the mattress. Sam beseeched his brother. "Dean… just tell me; you can trust me."

Dean looked stricken just the same, but he knew there was no stopping now. Sam could almost see the resignation settle over Dean's frame. "Right after that nasty fight you had with Dad, when you left for Stanford, Dad and I split for a while."

Sam had never heard this before. It honestly surprised him that for as well as he thought he knew his brother, things he _didn't_ know about Dean could still crop up.

Dean didn't look up. He stared at the carpet, his shoelaces … anywhere but at his brother.

Almost hesitantly (because anything related to that ugly period in the Winchester family history was staunchly avoided), Sam asked the question that had to be asked. "Why?"

Dean's facial expression tightened. "Because I told him I needed time alone… away from him." Dean spared a glance at his brother.

Sam wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt.

"You ditched Dad?"

"Yeah. I talked to him on the phone now and then," Dean continued awkwardly, "but we didn't meet back up again for more than two months after that night you walked out."

"Why did you cut and run on Dad?" Sam asked in a small voice. Dean had always been the good little soldier, John Winchester's pride and accomplishment while Sam had been the bane and disappointment (at least it seemed that way to Sam).

"Because I was mad at him."

"About me leaving? I thought you were mad at _me_ for that."

Dean snorted. "I was mad at both of you. You didn't fight with yourself, Sammy. Dad had just as much to do with you walking out as you did. And he told you to never come back." Dean's jaw tightened angrily at the memory of that brutal shouting match and John's most grievous command. Sam could see that part of Dean still resented John for that ultimatum thrown at Sam in the heat of the argument. Banishing Sam like that, shutting him out, _abandoning_ him, turning him away from the family… that was, by no stretch of the imagination, okay in Dean's mind. That was one unforgivable offense in the universe of Dean Winchester. Not even the great John Winchester could live down that tarnish on his record.

Sam couldn't believe he had to be told that to know that would be how Dean viewed that night. He should have known it because he knew Dean.

"I took up a hunt in this tiny town in the Pacific Northwest while I was going solo," Dean continued after a few seconds to let Sam grapple with the idea of Dean running off on their father. "I thought it was a werewolf. Animal attacks on the full moon – what more proof do you need?"

"Hearts?" Sam ventured.

Dean shrugged. "There was a lot missing from the corpses, hearts among them."

Sam nodded for Dean to go on.

Dean's face screwed as he revisited the hunt in his memories. "It was a really freaky town, and I guess that should have been a warning that something _different_ was up."

"Freaky how?"

"Freaky in how 'communal' the community was. I mean, we've seen pigeon-hole tiny towns that take being neighborly too far, all up-in-your-face apple pie and a side-helping of gossip, but _this_ was… I know now, after the fact, that they were acting as a pack."

Sam's spine stiffened. "There was a _pack_ of werewolves?! I mean, lycanthropes?" That was a seriously scary thought. Werewolves were destructive and dangerous enough, but they were always solitary creatures.

"Yeah. One of theirs had been in the Middle East serving in the military. How he kept his 'condition' hidden all that time is still a mystery to me. Anyway, the kid lived through the combat zone but came back kind of screwed up in the head. Finally snapped, I guess. Started killing."

Dean lifted a hand and absently rubbed at his chest. "The others in his 'pack' were trying to get a handle on the poor kid, but when I got there they still weren't willing to harm him. He was one of theirs, you know."

"So lycanthropes are… social?"

Dean nodded. "Eerily so, if you ask me. Imagine an entire freaking town dealing with things like a big family. They were all trying to figure out how to save this boy." The skin around Dean's eyes tightened. "I almost caught the kid once. Tracked him into the woods and found him with a hiker backed into a corner, so to speak. I was really thrown when I saw a wolf instead of a tripped-out person with fangs, but hey… I was willing to put a vicious animal out of its misery to save lives just as well as a restless spirit."

Sam nodded. Made sense.

"I was jumped before I got a shot off. By Skye." Dean almost smiled, but it still had a torque of disquiet to it. "She was one of the pack. Keeping an eye on the kid to try and stop him from taking another human life. When she found me about to waste him, she jumped me.

"Long story short, I explained who I was and what I was doing. Skye told me about what they were and offered to help me trap the kid if I promised not to hurt him and to turn him over to the pack and let them deal with him." Dean shrugged. "I couldn't believe half of what I was hearing, but I could understand them wanting to take care of their own."

Sam nodded his understanding. It had always been the Winchester way.

"We kept up with the kid for a few weeks, staying ahead of him just enough to foul his hunts against people, but _trapping_ him without killing him was another story. Skye and I spent… a lot of time together."

Sam, for the first time since Dean started his tale, actually smiled. "You slept with her."

Dean paused. "She wasn't like most of my… uh… well, she was different…"

Sam knew the uncomfortable, awkward tone of Dean's voice, though he had heard it very infrequently in his life. "You mean you cared about her."

Dean nodded faintly. "She was… I wish you could have met her, Sam."

That had an ominous feel to it, but Sam didn't want to bombard Dean with questions until he got the rest of the story that ended with his brother being a lycanthrope.

"Skye and I had the kid pinched between us in a riverbed… I thought we finally had him. He charged at me."

"Didn't you have a weapon?" Sam asked, horrified.

Dean winced. "Skye screamed for me not to hurt him."

Sam blinked, open-mouthed.

"He took me down, tore into my chest," Dean dropped his hand from the phantom pain.

Sam connected the dots. "And that's when you turned."

"No."

Sam frowned.

"Lycanthrope bites aren't like werewolf bites. They don't automatically transform their victim. To change a human takes more doing. It's actually similar to vampires. The lycan has to ingest the blood of the human they mean to turn, then the human has to taste that same lycan's blood. But even then, their 'pack' had very strict rules to prohibit their members from turning others." Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Most lycans are the way they are through heredity."

"A lycan is _born_ a lycan?" That was far more _natural_ than most of the crap they regularly dealt with.

Dean nodded.

Sam's eyes widened when the further implications dawned on him. "Does that mean that if _you_…"

Dean nodded at great pains. "Yeah."

Sam knew Dean didn't actually have _plans_ to have children one day, but now to know he would be destined to pass on _this_ to his kids if he _did_…

"Man… I'm sorry."

Dean shrugged as if it didn't matter, but Sam could tell that it mattered. A lot.

"So… if you knew all this, why did you let Skye turn you? I'm assuming she's the one who did."

Dean nodded. "When that boy attacked me, he damn near tore me open from throat to armpit. He was like a rabid dog, Sam. Amped up on crazy."

Sam shuddered at the mere thought. "What happened?"

Dean's eyes were stony as he stared a hole in the carpet. "Skye shot him. She knew it was either kill her pack mate or watch him kill me. She chose me."

Sam was speechless. He wished he could meet Skye, too. To thank her.

"Skye saved my life, but it wouldn't have been for long, the way I was bleeding out.

"Fun fact: Lycans heal faster than people do. I'm not really sure about all the biology mumbo jumbo involved. Something about the body going into overdrive to make the change, speeds healing as it reshapes bones and guts."

That made a lot more sense than some of the supernatural laws of the unnatural that they accepted as truth, so Sam was willing to go on faith that Dean was right.

"We were in the middle of freaking nowhere," Dean said with a sour shake of his head. "I was lying in that sorry-ass excuse for a river, miles from civilization…" Dean sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Skye had no other choice. It was turn me or watch me die."

"Was it _your_ choice, Dean?" Sam asked carefully. That would make a world of difference. If this was done to him against his ability to refuse, then it was just as bad as a curse.

Dean went very still and finally looked up and met his brother's eyes. "I knew what she was doing when she licked my wound. I knew what she was doing when she opened her wrist for me. She gave me the choice. I chose to live."

Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Dean chose this. He hadn't been _forced_ to live as… this.

"What happened after you drank her blood?"

Dean grimaced, "Do you have to say _drink_, like I'm some kind of freaking vampire? I just… it doesn't take much."

"But she opened her _wrist_…"

"Because it flowed fast from there and I was fading fast. She wouldn't die from it, anyway. After her blood was in my mouth, she changed. Just for a second. The cut was barely a scratch when she turned back to a chick."

"Oh… well, then what?"

"Then the most god-awful pain I've ever been in. It was my first change, and it was like…" Dean frowned and searched for words. "I don't even know _what_ it was like, because it was a hell of a lot worse than anything I've ever felt before."

Coming from a Winchester, that was no small claim. Sam went ashen at the very thought. "Shit… I thought you said it didn't hurt, not if you don't fight it."

"It doesn't now, but the first time…" Dean mustered up a wry smile, "must be what it's like for chicks to lose their virginity… except, I guess to be even half as painful you'd have to actually rip their hymens out through their nostrils…"

"_Dude_, gross," Sam interrupted.

Dean shrugged. "That's really all there is to tell. I turned, my body healed enough that I wasn't on death's door, and voila," Dean opened his hands. "Dean Winchester, lycanthrope."

Sam was slack-jaw in amazement at the story. He took a few moments to process it. His brother, a lycanthrope. As far as he'd always known, they were synonymous with werewolves. He was having to readjust his thinking to account for the newfound knowledge that they were _not_. And that his brother was one of them.

Sam glanced up at Dean and found his brother watching him nervously. When their eyes met, Dean turned his head aside just barely, "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

Dean looked inordinately concerned about Sam's every move. "Well… aren't you going to freak out? Reach for the silver bullets? Lock me up in the closet?"

Sam would have laughed, because he was a hunter and those _should_ be his first thoughts, but they weren't. Because aside all of that, this was _Dean_. Instead, he asked calmly, "Should I?"

Dean gaped. "I just tell you that your brother is a hunt and you act like _I'm_ the one being paranoid for suggesting a gun?"

"Do you kill at the full moon?" Sam countered, sharp but deadly serious.

Dean flinched back, first stunned, then defensive. "No, I don't."

"Have you ever?"

"No!"

"Then you're not a hunt, simple as that," Sam answered.

Dean just stared at him a moment. "That's it?"

Sam sighed. "Dean, what do you want from me?"

"I don't know, just… less understanding and acceptance, I guess."

"You want that?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"Hell, no, that's not what I _want_, but it's what I _expect_. I'm not human anymore, Sam! You're the hunter or the hunted, you know that."

Sam grew uneasy at their father's old words repeated to him. "I never saw that as the black and white that you and Dad did, Dean."

Dean stopped cold and regarded Sam closely. Sam met his gaze and willed Dean to understand that he was being honest. Sam had always seen the shades of gray; one of many reasons the hunt had been too hard for him to reconcile as a lifestyle.

When the rigidity melted out of Dean's posture, Sam knew his brother had realized that Sam Winchester truth. He became pensive, watching Sam with a strange, assessing look.

Sam offered a quick but (hopefully) reassuring smile, then asked, "How is being a lycanthrope different from being a werewolf?"

Dean opened his mouth, failed to make any sound, and closed his mouth again.

Sam lifted his eyebrows expectantly. If Dean was waiting for panic and a frenzied grab for guns from Sam, he'd be disappointed.

Sam had told Dean he trusted him, and he stood by that promise. He would _not_ make Dean regret letting his brother in on the secret.

Dean slowly relaxed, still eyeing Sam, then said, "Other than being affected by the lunar cycle, they're completely different."

"Just that you turn at the full moon," Sam mused.

"_Have_ to turn at the full moon," Dean clarified. When Sam looked at him, Dean continued, "The first night of the full moon is when we can't help changing. All other times, it's a matter of will."

Sam's eyes widened. "You mean, you can change _anytime you want_?"

Dean nodded.

"You could… you could change right now?" Sam stammered, knocked for a loop by that idea.

Dean looked strangely at him. "Do you want me to?"

"No! I just… day or night, makes no difference?"

Dean shook his head.

"Whoa…" was all Sam could manage in reply. So much of what they knew, the supernatural world they lived and breathed, was constrained by strict rules… like werewolves being tied to the nights of the full moon. It was staggering to think there was something out there, something like what Dean was, that didn't _have to_ be but was instead a matter of choice.

Dean cocked his head thoughtfully. "We're not crazed, bloodthirsty monsters like werewolves are. You saw that last night," Dean said uneasily.

Sam remembered the wolf lying sentry at his feet, refusing to leave his side while he was injured.

"It…" Dean faltered, clearly afraid to say what he'd begun to say.

"It what, Dean?" Sam urged gently.

Dean looked almost scared to say more. "It doesn't feel unnatural, Sam. When I'm the wolf…" Dean's lips twisted, almost a smile and almost a grimace, "when I'm the wolf, I feel _fantastic_."

Sam didn't know what to say. He had not expected Dean to _like_ what had become of him. He was a damn hunter! He killed things like what he had become. He was the last person Sam would ever suspect of enjoying becoming a _creature_.

A light bulb went off. "That's what scares you, isn't it?"

Dean froze but after a moment gave a stilted nod. "I'm a _hunt_, Sam. Maybe not to you, but to every other hunter in the world, I am. I know that. How far gone am I that I _like_ what's happened to me? That's… it's _wrong_, Sam. _I know_! But… I _like_ it anyway."

Sam thought back to every 'morning after' when Dean returned from his all-nighters practically elated. There was no question that being the wolf made Dean feel great.

Why did something that made a Winchester feel happy mean pain in the same stroke? Dean's wolf, Jessica…

"Does Dad know about this?"

Dean recoiled. "Hell no!"

Sam blinked.

Dean shook his head vehemently. "Dad could _never_ understand this. You… you're taking this all really well, but he _wouldn't_. He would see me as a hunt. Even if he tried not to, as our father, every time he looked at me that is all he'd see."

"Maybe… maybe he'd see it more like a curse, something to be fixed."

"I don't want this _fixed_, Sammy."

Sam sat stone-still, processing that simple sentiment.

Dean's voice dropped. "And _that_ Dad couldn't understand, either."

Sam had to agree with Dean on that.

"Besides," Dean continued ruefully, "if Dad found out this happened when I'd gotten mad at him and went off hunting solo… he'd _never_ let me forget that."

If Sam knew his father as well as Dean did, he knew the exact word John Winchester would use for a mishap like that… ammunition. Having made his own painful break for their father, Sam knew what it was like and what it took. And he knew all too well what kind of fuel for the fire John Winchester would bring to the table to support his argument.

He sat a moment, turning over everything he'd learned that morning, then asked, "What happened to Skye?"

Dean's fire left, and in its wake was sorrow. "She had to answer to the pack for killing one of their own."

"But surely they must have realized she had no choice!" Sam protested.

"And she had to answer for telling an outsider their secret and then turning a human."

"They didn't…" Sam began, dreading the answer.

"No. They're not brutes, Sam. They were going to lock her up on the full moons as a punishment. Those nights when the whole town turns, the pack runs together." Dean shivered. "I… I can only imagine what it would be like to run with them." Dean bit back a wistful sigh. "She was devastated that she'd never get to run with them again; that's like a life-sentence to a lycan… so if they weren't going to run with her, _I_ would." Dean seemed to shrink in on himself painfully, but he kept on talking. Now it seemed if he stopped the story might never come out. "One night I was going to meet her in the woods; some of the townsfolk still didn't like me much, and I didn't want to make even more trouble for her. She never showed. I went looking for her and found her by the side of the road. She'd been hit by a damn car." Dean clenched his teeth. "The guy must have been flying down the highway. Cracked her skull open on impact… she couldn't even change to heal herself."

Sam watched Dean struggle through the tragic retelling without saying a word, letting Dean get through the story.

Dean took a breath. "I carried her home to her family. You know, their laws demanded she be punished for what she'd done for me, but they loved her. They knew that Skye… that she only turned me because she… you know." Dean's voice caught and he cleared his throat roughly. "For her, sort of as a last request that she'd never had a chance to make, they offered to bring me into the pack…" Dean trailed, regrouped, then shook his head. "I left after the funeral."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. From the emotion Dean's body language was screaming, he knew Skye had been important to him. If she hadn't died, Sam had a sneaking suspicion Dean would have taken her with him on the road. She might have been sitting in this very motel room with them. She already a being of the secret, unknown side of nature and the unnatural, hunting the supernatural would not have been a reason to shy from Dean as it would have been for a normal woman.

Strangely, it made Sam miss Jess all over again.

For a long time, the two brothers sat quietly with their own painful memories.

When the silence was broken, it was Sam who spoke in a whisper, "Why couldn't you tell me this before?"

Dean's lips twitched. "Well, I didn't know how you'd take it for one, and secondly… I couldn't lay that kind of responsibility on you. This is something that could get me killed. Hunters find out what I am, they won't care that there's a difference between lycanthrope and werewolf. I couldn't put you in the position to be accomplice to that… to some hunters, that would make you just as guilty. And just as dead."

"I'm your brother, Dean," Sam stressed. "It's my job to protect you. I wish you'd stop acting like you have to be superman and just let me."

"Well, doesn't matter now, you know."

"Now that I know, it's going to make both our lives so much easier, you know," Sam said matter-of-factly, trying to impress upon Dean how counterproductive that secrecy had been in the first place. "We can _both_ work around this, instead of you just about gnawing off your own arm to get out of the city on a day with a full moon."

Dean shuddered at the memory. "Dude, I thought I was going to lose my freaking mind."

"I noticed… but now we just avoid getting into that position again. We can take to the boondocks those nights, tuck into places in the middle of the woods so there's less chance you'll be seen… geez, Dean, this is going to be so much easier on you." Sam stood from the bed, resolute that the conversation was over for now and no longer able to deny the press of his bladder.

Dean quickly stood opposite Sam, coming to stand almost toe to toe with him, and he looked up and leveled an eye-to-eye stare at Sam. Sam watched Dean's eyes flash gold. It was a test, Winchester style, and Sam knew it. He didn't so much as blink.

Dean's eyes faded back to hazel-green when Sam failed to react. He narrowed his gaze attentively at Sam. "You're not afraid?"

Sam offered up a half smile. "Dean, I told you… I trust you."

Dean backed up a step, rocked. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered, so softly Sam could barely hear it.

Sam nodded and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Alone with his thoughts, he wondered how his life would change beginning today.

Life with his brother, the lycanthrope.

Sam had a feeling their already weird lives were about to become a lot weirder.

To Be Continued…


	9. Chapter 9

Sam would never tell Dean that he thought he was beautiful. Not the man Dean Winchester (who was handsome, yeah, Sam knew that in the same way he knew the sky was blue because it was just _true_), but Dean the wolf. _That_ was beautiful.

But Sam would never let on he thought so, because he knew better than to say something like that to his big brother.

"Dude," Sam groaned as Dean hastily stood from his place by their fire and peeled off his shirt. They'd barely set up camp, but Dean was eager to change.

It had been more than two months since Sam found out his brother was a lycanthrope. In a testament to just how bizarre their lives had been already, things hadn't really changed that much for them. One of the few appreciable day-to-day differences was that they did take on a lot more woodland hunts since Sam learned Dean's secret. Dean was almost a different person in the forest now. It lit him up from the inside out, and though Sam would bitch and complain about the good old days when Dean _didn't_ like camping, it was hard to really begrudge his older brother something that obviously made him so happy.

Dean, naked from the waist up but for the amulet, looked questioningly at Sam.

Sam's lip curled, as though he'd caught whiff of a noxious odor. "There has to be a better way for you to wolf out than for me to have to look at your lily-white ass every time."

Dean smirked. "My ass is coveted far and wide, and you know it. Besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to take clothes off when you don't have hands? And _no_, I'm not going to let you undress me after I've turned. I have my _dignity_." Dean was kicking off his shoes.

"Dignity… Dean, I'm seeing way more of you than I ever wanted to see."

Dean snorted and shucked his pants. "Well, deal, because I'm not running around as a wolf in underwear. I don't see what your problem is, anyway; it's nothing you haven't seen before."

Growing up in uncomfortably close quarters with Dean, that much was true. But Sam thought it was also completely beside the point.

They were bickering, but the mood wasn't nasty; Dean was in too good a mood for it to be darkened, and Sam just couldn't find it in him to be upset with Dean for that. Still, he had to say _something_ about the streaking. He was, after all, a brother.

Dean stepped out of his boxer briefs and stood buck naked (because a tiny amulet lying against his chest _so_ didn't count as clothes) in the middle of the forest.

"Man…" Sam averted his eyes. "Fine, if it doesn't matter because it's all been seen before, why don't I start walking around bare-ass naked, too?"

Dean chuckled. "Just for the sake of being naked? I gotta tell you, Sammy, threesomes, sadomasochism, and now a nudist… college shoved your boundaries right off a cliff, man."

"Shut up, just… change already, will you?"

By the time Sam looked back, Dean had. Instead of his loud-mouth brother, there was the wolf. It stood next to the pile of clothes Dean had shed, gray coat ruffling in the breeze and the late afternoon sun glinting off the golden amulet dangling from the wolf's throat. What had been uncomfortable naked brother a moment before was now regal, dignified grace and power.

Yeah, there was no question about it… Dean was a beautiful wolf.

The wolf sniffed at the wind, ears moving to catch all the sounds the human sense could not hope to hear, then he looked over his shoulder toward the woods. The wolf glanced back at Sam and stared pointedly at him.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I know, be careful, keep a weapon in reach, don't wander too far from camp, don't take candy from strangers, _go_."

What Sam liked about the wolf was it couldn't throw back smart-ass remarks. Sam always got the last word, even if the wolf's gaze said a mouthful. With a blink, the wolf turned and bounded off into the forest.

Sam smiled to himself and settled in front of the fire, using a log for a backrest. He knew Dean wouldn't go far. If Sam was in trouble, if he called for Dean, Dean would come. Even when Sam couldn't see any sign of him, Dean had Sam locked in his periphery senses and never strayed so far that he couldn't watch out for Sam.

Sam dragged over his bag, dug out a book he had stuffed in it, and opened to his tattered bookmark. It was a book on lycanthropy Sam had found at the last 'oddball books' shop they were in. Always on the look-out for books on the supernatural that might actually be useful (a scavenger hunt that naturally became Sam's job; book stores and Dean weren't on good terms), Sam had also added to his 'must have' list a comprehensive book on lycanthropy.

It proved harder to find a legit book on the condition than he would have thought. There was, of course, a lot of lore on werewolves. Then there were books on abnormal psychology that referenced the mental illness of a person _thinking_ they were a wolf when really they were just batshit crazy (as Dean put it). Sam was starting to think he'd never find a decent book on _real_ lycanthropy. The one he was currently reading was the first book he'd run across that genuinely treated werewolves and lycans as different creatures.

Sam wasn't holding out high hopes (the book, with yellowed pages and a worn cover, was sadly thin), but he bought the book anyway. He might not see Dean as a hunt, but Sam still had the ingrained habit of research in him.

Sam had been reading the book off and on whenever Dean left him to his own devices.

Like now.

They'd finished up their hunt yesterday, but Sam suggested they stick around a few days to 'enjoy the scenery'. Both brothers knew that really meant hanging around to let Dean enjoy some time as the wolf.

It was routine by now.

Dean was never the one to suggest they 'indulge' Dean's wilder side. There were the first nights of the full moon when Dean demanded allowances for his lycanthropy, but even then it didn't mean he had to be outdoors, away from humanity and in the embrace of nature. It had only been vital before because Dean had been keeping his monthly transformation from his brother. In fact, the last full moon found the boys snow-bound in a cabin in Minnesota. Dean practically paced a rut in the floorboards the day preceding the full moon, then when the night descended he stripped and turned. That was it. The next morning Dean was fine (though still just as stir crazy as Sam) for having been coped up all night. Sam had found the wolf harder to engage in a boredom-combating hand of cards, but otherwise it hadn't been a big deal.

It was Sam who worked 'camping trips' into their lives after learning the truth about his brother. He wanted Dean to enjoy himself.

And enjoy the wolf he did.

Sam could understand better, after living in full disclosure with Dean the lycanthrope, why his brother was so worried about what their dad would think. Far from repulsed or ashamed by what he had become, Dean was completely enchanted with his animal self. Fully and willingly taken with it.

John Winchester would be appalled.

Sam tried to find ways to give Dean freedom to run.

Sam glanced up and scanned the trees for any sign of movement, but the woods were still. Nocturnal insects were beginning to stir for the celebration of night, and birds were growing quiet to give them the stage.

Sam was alone in the middle of nowhere, a recipe that should give a Winchester a bad feeling, but he wasn't concerned. He knew Dean was out there, and that his senses now were far keener than Sam's could ever dream to be. He trusted Dean to be his eyes and ears. Relaxed, Sam turned his attention back to his book.

He was through another three chapters of his book and had fixed himself something to eat before he heard the sound of footsteps padding toward the campsite. Sam glanced up as the wolf emerged from the darkness.

Sam set aside his book and reclined back against his log backrest with one elbow, legs sprawled before him and shins tingly from the heat of the fire so close to them. Sam watched the wolf coming toward him and marveled at how _normal_ it had become to see a wolf and know it was his brother. "Wasn't expecting you back until dawn," Sam said casually.

The wolf paused, looked at him, then came closer to the fire. It stopped by the discarded clothes, braced itself with legs apart, and then pelt became flesh. The wolf surrendered its shape to the man, and in a matter of seconds Sam was having to see naked Dean again.

Seriously, they needed to figure out a better changing situation.

Dean quickly dressed and stretched. "That last hunt must have worn me out more than I thought." He strolled closer to Sam and dropped down beside him so he could appropriate half of the log at Sam's back for a backrest himself. For a minute, the brothers sat shoulder to shoulder in silence, staring at the fire hypnotically.

Dean fished Sam's abandoned book out from between them and looked at the title. He lifted one eyebrow and looked over at his brother. "The Real Wolf Man?"

Sam shrugged. "It's the only book I've run across yet that treats werewolves and lycanthropes as different."

"You looking up what will kill me?" Dean asked teasingly, slapping Sam's arm with the small paperback. But Sam, who knew Dean so well, could detect the slight note of disquiet in his brother's voice. Dean began to radiate unease at the idea his brother was researching him _like he would a hunt_.

And Sam had been going to such lengths to make it plain to his brother that Dean was _not_ something to be hunted as far as Sam was concerned. Dean had even come to accept Sam's acceptance and let down his guard. He was starting to trust Sam with all aspects of the wolf. Now, there was a shadow of doubt at finding his brother reading up on lycanthropy.

"It has nothing to do with hunting; I just want to understand," Sam answered with as much calm and sincerity as he could express. It was the truth. "Guess I can't help wanting to dig up a book on something new. That makes it real for me, you know… if it's in a book, must be true." Sam smirked playfully. Dean shook his head, but Sam could see his body relaxing again.

Sam cocked his head when a thought occurred to him. "But since you bring it up, do the same methods for killing werewolves work with lycanthropes?"

Dean lowered the book on to his thigh, fingers still holding it lightly in a pincher grip. "Yeah… but in the sense that a silver bullet to the heart will kill anything, not just werewolves." Dean idly thumbed the edge of the book, making the old pages cascade noisily together.

"So, anything can kill you?"

Dean grunted in confirmation. "Doesn't require anything special, if that's what you mean. The wolf doesn't make me impervious to regular weapons."

Dean pondered the book in his hand a moment, then began to flip through the pages curiously.

Sam watched Dean read a few random paragraphs before commenting, "Almost everything you find on the topic will tell you werewolves and lycanthropes are the same thing, just with a different name."

Dean nodded absently.

"Why is there so little literature on actual lycanthropes, do you think?"

Dean lowered the book and scooted down to turn the log backrest into more of a pillow. He tossed the book aside carelessly. He interlaced his fingers atop his stomach and said, "Because lycanthropes are literally on the verge of extinction."

Sam looked down at Dean and waited for more.

Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth a moment before he said, "Kind of funny… I asked Skye just about every question you've asked me. Guess hunters all want to know the same things about the unknown." For a fleeting second, Dean almost smiled. Then he stared intently at the campfire. "Lycanthropes are nothing like werewolves. They're a lot like _wolves_. They run in a pack, they have a 'complex social hierarchy' – Skye's words, not mine – they mate for life…" Dean stopped abruptly, and Sam opened his mouth, unexpectedly stunned and about to ask about Skye.

"It was the pack thing that did them in, though," Dean pressed on before Sam could interrupt. "When hunters, our kind and the village mob vigilante type, found out about their friendly neighborhood pack of lycanthropes, they set out to wipe them out. Just because they were different and people are afraid of what they don't understand." Dean was trying to act detached from the whole matter, but his body was tensing up by the minute. "If they had scattered and gone to ground solo, most of them might have survived. But they wouldn't abandon the pack. It got most of the lycans cornered and killed."

"How many are left?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Don't know," Dean responded, "but werewolves are about ten times as common as lycanthropes, so that tells you something."

Given how infrequently the Winchester boys had tangled with werewolves in their lives on the hunt, it put the rarity of the lycanthrope into perspective.

"But there are some out there without a pack," Sam reasoned. "I mean, look at you."

Dean was conspicuously quiet and it drew Sam's attention. Dean sat back up and crossed his arms almost defensively over his chest. "In that respect, I'm a freak. Most wouldn't even _consider_ going off alone. Lycans live for the pack."

Sam was watching his brother closely, sensing something in Dean's shift in tone and posture. "Do you wish you _were_ part of a pack?"

Dean shot a brief but searing look at Sam. "_You're_ my pack."

Sam gaped and could only muster in answer, "Oh…"

Dean frowned. "I almost joined Skye's… when they offered to take me."

"Why didn't you?"

Dean gave the answer to that question some thought. "They weren't my family. Maybe if Skye…" Dean trailed into silence, then he shook his head. "I didn't belong with them. But still… for a while, it was tempting."

Sam hadn't suspected Dean almost gave up the hunt to become a member of a community… granted a lycan pack so hardly Norman Rockwell, but still a settled life in some fashion in the world of Dean Winchester.

"Well… I'm glad you didn't."

Dean looked sidelong at Sam, and Sam offered a smile.

The brothers sat together in silence for a while as the sounds of the night filled the void.

It was almost with trepidation that Dean broke the quiet between them. "Sam…"

"Hmmm?"

Dean hesitated, eyes firmly focused on the fire. "I wanted to say that… just… that I…" Dean looked as though he was in actual pain. Either he'd hurt himself in the forest, or he was trying to talk about his feelings.

"What?" Sam urged.

Dean glowered at the fire, refusing to meet Sam's gaze. "I just wanted to say that… you make _this_ easy for me… and I… you know, appreciate it."

Sam shook his head dismissively. "You don't have to thank me."

Dean scowled. "Yeah, I do. I don't know _anyone_ who would be as okay with this as you've been. Look, can't you just say 'no sweat, Dean' so we can ward off the chick-flick moment?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, sure, no sweat, Dean."

"Good."

"You know what's funny?" Sam asked on a lark.

"What?"

Sam gestured between the two of them half-heartedly, which today meant Dean's lycanthropy, as it was the topic of conversation. "I've only known about you being a lycan for a few months, but it feels totally normal now."

One side of Dean's mouth curled up into a smile. "Yeah, well, Winchesters always did have a pretty screwed-up concept of normal."

Sam couldn't argue with that.

To Be Continued…


	10. Chapter 10

As Sam barreled through the woods at full-tilt, his brother racing right beside him, he cursed the fact that they caught on to the wendigo so late in the game.

While the basic rules were the same, the specifics were different for each wendigo (its appetite for human flesh usually dependent on the monster's size). This one killed eight people every ten years. Also, this particular wendigo made fast work of racking up victims when it came out of hibernation. By the time the boys got into town, the count was up to seven. They had one chance to torch this bastard before it holed up and slept for another ten years.

Sam could just barely see the beast fleeing headlong through the forest ahead of them. It was wounded (Dean had managed a glancing blow with a burning limb), but it was still outpacing them. With every stride, the distance between it and the Winchesters grew.

This hunt had been frenzied and off the cuff from the start. They had had no time whatsoever to track it or study it. They had no idea where its lair was, and that was a very, very bad thing. Once the wendigo decided to hibernate (and only one victim short of its typical number of man-snacks was close enough that the wendigo might decide to call it a decade), it would crawl up in some hole that the brothers would never be able to find. While hibernating, wendigos were impossible to locate; otherwise, hunters would spend their time searching out the lairs and slaying wendigos in their sleep. During hibernation, it was like the wendigo disappeared entirely until its next feeding cycle.

Sam had a bad feeling the wendigo was heading for its lair. If it was going to choose hibernation over dealing with two hunters, they were in real danger of losing their prey.

Sam and Dean poured all their energy into running after the creature. They both knew what was at stake and what would happen if the creature reached its lair and crawled up into its hibernation hole.

They'd been chasing it through the woods for miles, it seemed. But Sam had to face the fact that this was a race they were losing.

"Sam," Dean barked between heaving breaths, never slowing his pace, "it's getting away!"

"I know!" Sam yelled back, even as he watched the wendigo's shape ahead of them grow smaller as it pulled even further ahead. He was about to lose sight of it entirely.

Sam wanted to scream. Instead, he yelled a command at Dean. "Catch him!"

Dean shot Sam a short look that said it all. Dean understood exactly what Sam meant.

Sam asked his body for more speed that it didn't have to give. "Just… occupy it… keep it…" Sam gasped as he continued running, "from getting… into… its lair! Hold it off… 'til I get there… with… the flare gun!"

An indefinable shift in Dean's energy, his presence, told Sam at once that Dean was going to do it.

"Just hold it off!" Sam repeated to stress that part to Dean. Because Dean wasn't going to have a weapon when he caught up to the wendigo, and his brother was just the kind to throw himself into a fight anyway.

Dean, never breaking stride, jerked off his shirt and threw it aside. Then he flung himself to the ground.

The wolf hit the forest floor tangled in Dean's pants. He twisted and flailed a moment, impatiently kicking himself free of the garments. It helped that the wolf, while just as heavy as Dean, had its mass in different places. Jeans that would stay on Dean wouldn't hug the wolf's contours enough to stay put. With a few frantic kicks, the wolf slipped out of the remaining clothes, jumped to its feet, then began to run after the wendigo.

Within seconds, Dean was streaking ahead of Sam, racing faster than Sam's pitiful human legs could carry him. Sam kept on the pressure, running for all he was worth, but Dean was leaving him in the dust.

Sam still tried to keep up, though there was no way he could actually keep pace. Sam could never hope to run as fast as a wolf.

"Just hold it!" Sam called after his brother.

The wolf was flying over the ground, closing on the wendigo's trail. Sam cursed again when he saw the wendigo had disappeared… he couldn't see it anymore.

From the way Dean was charging forward, ears sleeked back and body flexing with every mighty stride, Sam had to assume Dean could still see it. Or if not see it, smell it well enough to track.

Sam ran. He thought his lungs were going to give out and his muscles screamed in protest, but he kept running. He lost sight of Dean. The wolf bolted into the underbrush ahead of Sam and just disappeared.

Sam, the flare gun gripped desperately in one sweaty hand, pumped his legs faster, though they already felt like lead.

Sam's heart was pounding so loudly in his ears, he was surprised he heard the shot. The report of a gun cracked the air, loud and resonating, coming from directly ahead. Sam almost stumbled, confused.

Dean didn't have a gun. How could he have shot the wendigo?

He couldn't have. Which meant someone else was out in the woods with a gun. And his brother was out there, in the form of a fearsome predator and unarmed.

Urged by panic, Sam tapped the last of his reserves and ran harder. The gunshot had been close… too close.

Then Sam heard a pained yelp.

Dean!

Sam exploded into a small clearing and allowed himself only a split-second to assess the situation.

The wendigo was nowhere in sight. A dark patch in the grass (which Sam would examine more closely later) was probably what was left of the monster.

A spent single-shot flare gun was discarded on the ground.

A shadow amid the bushes (that had to be the crevice-size entrance to an underground cave) jumped out at Sam's hunter training immediately. It must have been the wendigo's lair. He tucked that detail away and assessed the surroundings.

There were two figures in front of Sam.

Dean, as the wolf, was wounded. Sam could see a smear of red blood in the animal's gray coat as Dean shied away from his attacker. Dean's hackles were up, his body tensed and defensive, but he wasn't growling or snarling. He looked more surprised than angry.

A man was crouched in an attack stance brandishing a hunting knife in one hand. The knife was streaked with blood.

That was all Sam needed. He brought up the flare gun and aimed it at the knife-wielding enemy.

"_Stop! Don't move_!" Sam's body was already on the brink of collapse from the long and grueling chase through the forest. The new surge of adrenaline upon suddenly seeing the man with a weapon was giving him enough energy to protect his brother, but it was stressing the limits of his endurance to do it.

All Sam could process for a few heartbeats was that Dean was hurt. Dean had been attacked. No one attacked Sam's brother and got away with it.

The wolf was whimpering and limping toward Sam.

The man saw the animal moving and readied to lunge at it.

"I _will_ kill you!" Sam bellowed. A flare gun wouldn't work as well against a person as a wendigo, but Sam had other weapons on him… the flare gun need only harm the attacker enough to give Sam a chance to draw his own knife. Then it would be a knife fight, but so be it.

The figure, dark and threatening, spoke. "Sam?!"

Sam blinked. That sounded like…

"_Dad_?"

Sam forced himself to concentrate on the man's face, when before he had seen only a man, a knife, and the threat both posed.

It _was_ John Winchester, facing Sam with a bloodied hunting knife in his hand.

Sam, flabbergasted, couldn't quite convince himself to lower the weapon he still had pointed at his father, not while the man still held a knife painted with Dean's blood. Sam spared a glance toward Dean. The wolf was closer to Sam than John, but he'd stopped his movement toward Sam when John acted as though he meant to defend Sam against the wild animal. Dean was standing still, tongue lolling from exertion and body shaking.

Now Sam knew why Dean hadn't been bristled for a counter-attack when Sam came upon them in the clearing. Dean wasn't going to lunge at their own father. But he _had_ been cut… Sam could see blood dripping down Dean's side.

It made Sam's blood boil. He turned an accusing look on his father. "What did you do?!"

John, now standing upright with the knife held idly at his side, blinked at Sam's frantic tone. "I've been tracking this wendigo for a week; I'd finally found its lair and meant to ambush it here when it came crashing out of the woods with that…" he gestured to Dean with his knife, "on its tail."

Sam finally made himself lower the flare gun (because he only then remembered he was aiming it), his body feeling numb and shaky from shock and exhaustion.

This was nothing like the way they expected this hunt to end. Sam turned his eyes again to Dean.

"Why did you hurt him?" Sam demanded furiously.

John frowned. "That thing?" Again, John gestured absently at the wolf.

Sam dropped the flare gun and approached Dean.

"Son," John warned sharply, "don't get too close…"

"You _knifed_ him," Sam hissed as he dropped to his knees beside Dean. Dean's lean body was trembling. The creature that normally looked so solid and strong looked remarkably brittle and weak as Dean looked up at Sam piteously with pleading golden eyes.

Sam touched Dean's shoulder, winced at the look in Dean's eyes, then craned to look at the animal's injured side. "Let me see," he murmured.

"Damnit, Sam," John grumbled, "did you hear what I told you? Get away from that thing. A wounded animal is _dangerous_…"

Sam ignored his father, pressed his hand to the blood-stained fur, and grimaced when Dean yelped and sidled away from Sam's touch. Sam's hand came back sticky and red.

"Shit," Sam muttered. He peeled out of his shirt. "Lay down," Sam gently said to Dean.

Dean obediently lowered himself to the ground and gingerly rolled on to his uninjured side to give Sam access to the wound.

Sam balled up his shirt and pressed it to Dean's side. Dean whined and struggled feebly against the pain.

John was coming closer. "Sam, what the hell is going on here? And where's your brother?"

Sam didn't pay any attention to his father. He was trying to assess Dean's injury. He gave the blood a chance to soak into the shirt then drew it away. The gash he saw was ugly, but not as deep as John Winchester usually inflicted. Dean must have jumped to the side at the last second and managed to avoid an out-and-out stabbing.

John's strong hand fell on Sam's shoulder, followed quickly by John's equally strong voice. "Sam… I'm talking to you."

"Back off or help me," Sam snapped, turning up the briefest of venomous glances at his father.

Sam didn't wait for John's answer… he had more important things to worry about. Sam resumed putting pressure on the knife wound in Dean's side, wincing when Dean whimpered. "Sorry," Sam whispered.

Sam sensed more than saw John slowly drop to the ground beside them. "Sam… what's going on?" This time he asked gently.

Not that it would get him an answer.

Sam could feel the blood slowly soaking through the shirt in his hands and wetting his palms. Dean's breathing was becoming labored.

All kinds of not good.

Sam leaned in close to Dean's head, bringing his lips to the wolf's ear so John wouldn't overhear. "We have to get this bleeding under control… change."

Dean rolled his golden eyes up to Sam, begging silently, then his gaze shifted meaningfully to John. Dean looked back up at Sam, terror flooding his lupine expression.

Sam winced sympathetically. He knew Dean's fears. He shared them. But he was more scared of losing Dean. He knew the change aided healing, and that was what they needed right now.

"Sam… where is Dean?" John asked again, this time with a hint of concern in his voice.

Dean looked slowly toward John again.

Sam looked up at John. "Dad… get out of here."

John looked floored. "What?"

Sam glanced back down at Dean still tenaciously holding his wolf form. If they were alone, Dean wouldn't hesitate to change. He did now because John was there. Sam knew Dean was scared to reveal himself as a lycanthrope in front of their father.

"Go away!" Sam pleaded. If John wasn't there, Dean would change and his body would heal.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" John asked. When Sam refused to answer him, only focused on the bleeding wolf, John lost his patience. Not that he'd ever had much with Sam to begin with. "Sam, for god's sake, just leave the animal alone. It's as good as dead anyway."

Sam flew at their father before he really knew he was moving. He leapt over Dean and shoved John. Hard. Not expecting the assault, John fell back on the ground with a surprised grunt, his knife skidding through the grass to land a few feet away.

The wolf yelped in distress behind them.

"_Sam_!" John barked, angry and confused at Sam's strange behavior.

Sam was standing over him, shaking he was so angry. He wanted to hurt something, and John was looking like a very convenient and appropriate target. He'd stabbed Dean!

"… Sam…" a weak voice issued from behind him.

Sam, his father instantly forgotten, whirled around to face Dean. He was human again, lying naked on his side with a bloody cut tracing a line across his ribs. His face looked ashen from blood loss and pain, but the tightness to his expression was all about John.

Sam rushed back to Dean's side and dropped down beside him. Anxiously, he examined the wound.

It was no longer bleeding. The change had helped. The blood on Dean was what had already been spilled, but nothing new was pumping from the wound.

"Thank god," Sam whispered, body sagging in relief. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and mustered a weak smile. "Man… you scared the living crap out of me."

Dean didn't answer. Didn't look at Sam. He was looking past Sam, watching their father. Dean's face was frozen. Unreadable.

Sam was so sorry Dean had had to do it.

Not deigning to turn around and face John, Sam used the last clean spots on his stained shirt to gingerly dab at Dean's wound, looking at it critically until he decided it wasn't likely to tear itself open again, then he tossed the shirt aside. "You think you can make it back to the car?"

Dean slowly moved his eyes away from John and rested them on Sam. He nodded stiltedly.

Sam nodded encouragement and helped Dean struggle to his hands and knees. When Dean braced one foot on the ground, hand on his knee, to attempt standing, Sam crowded in and slid underneath Dean's arm, pulling Dean's arm around his neck and hauling Dean upright. They had to look quite the pair, Dean naked and covered in blood and Sam shirtless and bent over to let his brother's arm loop around his shoulders for support.

Dean hissed at the pain but didn't say a word.

"Easy," Sam said needlessly, looking closely at Dean's face for any signs he couldn't or shouldn't make this hike. Dean was collecting himself slowly but surely. The weight he let Sam take eased incrementally as Dean felt surer on his feet and hesitantly stood upright, his free hand covering the wound.

Sam gave him a minute then frowned at him. "You good?"

Dean's face was pale but he forced a nod, eyes resolutely closed. "Yeah… just waiting for the world to stop spinning."

"Take your time," Sam said quickly. "The wendigo's dead, so I'm not in a hurry."

Dean gave a tight smile, "What, don't need to get back for a hot date?"

Sam snorted.

Dean took a few steadying breaths then looked up. He froze. "Where's Dad?" he croaked.

Sam looked up and found the clearing empty. Their dad was gone. That made Sam's teeth grind. "Don't know… and I don't care," Sam growled.

"Sam…" Dean scolded.

"What? He _stabbed_ you, Dean."

"Lay off him, man," Dean rasped, "he didn't know it was me."

Rationally, Sam knew that was true, but he wasn't in a forgiving mood. He was frayed from the hunt that had gone wrong from the start, the marathon charge through the woods, finding Dean bleeding from an injury inflicted by their own _father_… It was too much to expect calm and logic after all that, so Sam went silent. Dean tugged at his arm that was looped around Sam's neck, indicating he meant to stand on his own. Sam carefully slid out from underneath Dean's arm but hovered nearby, ready to catch his brother if Dean wasn't quite up to standing on his own yet.

Dean swayed but remained upright, seemingly by sheer force of will.

Sam stepped in beside his brother and lowered his face, "I'm so sorry, Dean…"

Dean closed his eyes. "Me too."

"Here," John's voice intoned lowly from behind the two boys. Sam and Dean startled and looked back toward their father as John laid a blanket over Dean's shoulders. Dean numbly accepted the blanket; Sam recognized the emergency blanket John kept in his truck. John must be parked nearby.

Dean gingerly wrapped the blanket around him, mindful of his damaged side.

Sam was glaring angrily at John.

John caught Sam's look and frowned. "Sam… I didn't know."

"Sam…" Dean intoned meaningfully.

Sam looked away from John and focused on Dean. "You ready to get out of here?"

"How far away are you parked?" John asked.

Sam set his jaw mutinously a moment, then answered, "Few miles, at least."

John looked at Dean, who was barely staying on his feet. "I'm just over there, let me give you boys a lift back to your motel."

Dean stiffened at the idea of leaving behind his baby.

"Sam and I will come back for the car," John assured, knowing why Dean had balked. He looked down remorsefully at Dean's blood-streaked side. "You're not up for miles of walking."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, then Sam nodded and stepped in to gently herd Dean toward John's vehicle. "He's right… come on."

Dean hesitated, as though he would prefer walking miles to leaving his car alone that long, but with a grumble he conceded defeat and followed their father.

John's black truck was parked just out of sight of the wendigo lair. John got behind the wheel and Sam helped Dean into the cab before cramming in beside him. Dean sagged back against the seat and closed his eyes, body wrapped in the rough gray blanket. Sam watched him with worry a moment but decided Dean was feigning sleep to avoid John (and any questions he might have asked) more than it was due to the extent of his injury.

Sam gave John directions to their motel and the rest of the ride was made in silence. At one point, Dean genuinely did start to nod off and listed to the side, leaning into Sam.

Sam tugged the blanket closer around Dean and looked once, uneasily, at their father.

When they got back to the motel, Dean was feeling better, if not one hundred percent. Sam used his keycard to let Dean in and asked awkwardly, "You need anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Go get my baby."

Sam studied Dean as he shuffled toward the bathroom. When Dean closed the bathroom door, Sam ducked into the motel room long enough to fetch himself a clean shirt, then he shut the door and returned to the truck where John was waiting.

* * *

The silence on the drive back was thick and oppressive. Neither Winchester would be the one to speak first, even when a thousand things needed saying. Sam silently begged his father to just don't ask. It was an impossible hope, John wouldn't leave this alone, but Sam didn't want Dean's secret dissected by the one person he'd tried so hard to keep this from. In the months of keeping Dean's secret, Sam had become just as protective of it.

They pulled up behind the Impala and Sam wordlessly got out of the car and started hiking the same path he and Dean had taken earlier.

"Where are you going?" John called after him, confused.

"Dean's keys are in his pants; he ditched those right before." That was all Sam would say. _Before_.

It took a while because he wasn't running all-out this time, but Sam found Dean's scatter of clothing and fished them off the forest floor. He retrieved the Impala keys from Dean's jeans pocket, put them in his own, and headed back to the car. John had stayed back with the cars and looked up when Sam emerged from the woods with Dean's clothes and shoes in hand.

Sam still didn't say anything to him. He knew his father had a thousand questions, but Sam didn't want to answer them. He _wouldn't_ answer them unless John forced the issue. And he would. Sam _knew_ he would. But Sam wouldn't volunteer anything until it was dragged out of him.

Sam tossed Dean's things in the car passenger seat and moved to get in behind the wheel.

John was blocking his way.

Sam tensed and met his father's piercing gaze.

Here it came.

"What has your brother become?" John asked lowly. In true John Winchester fashion, when he lit on a topic he went right for the throat. And there was an edge to his voice. An edge Sam knew. The bladed edge of John Winchester, hunter.

Sam bristled. "Nothing dangerous."

John's expression hardened at the evasive answer. "What is he?" he repeated darkly.

"It doesn't matter," Sam snapped stubbornly. He would give anything for his dad to just shut up. Stop asking. Stop questioning and stop doubting. Why couldn't John trust Sam? Or, if not that, have a little faith in the son that had always made John proud? If he couldn't trust Sam, then let him believe in Dean.

John frowned as he scrutinized Sam's face. "How long?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You mean, how long has he been… what he is?"

John nodded slowly.

"Years." Sam stood defiantly and made John connect the dots. Let John realize he'd been the one hunting alongside Dean like he was now and never noticed something different or amiss. Let him understand Dean was still _Dean_, Dean as John had known him.

John blinked in surprise. Sam felt some satisfaction at that.

John eyed Sam. "How long have you known?"

Sam shrugged, as though it were immaterial. "A few months."

John took a step back. "What did this to him?"

Sam knew what his father was thinking. He would hunt down whatever inflicted this upon his son and kill it. Revenge. A life for a life, an eye for an eye. That was John's answer to everything.

Their dad wouldn't know it had been Skye, not a monster but a woman. A woman Dean had loved.

Sam sighed. "Just leave it alone, Dad." Sam tried to move past his father to the driver's side door.

John grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly to a halt. "Leave it alone?! You're kidding, right? Something turns your brother into a _creature_ and I'm supposed to leave it alone?"

Sam jerked his arm free from his father's grasp, anger spiking hotly. "You're so narrow-minded! Just because it's something you don't understand, something you can't make fit into your idea of good and bad, doesn't mean it's something evil. This is _Dean _we're talking about, Dad!"

"_That_," John pointed toward the woods, where Dean had been a wolf, "was not your brother!"

Sam punched him. He wasn't sure who was more surprised, John or himself. John stumbled back and brought a hand up to his jaw, blinking in surprise.

"Don't you dare say that to him!" Sam yelled. This was everything Dean had been afraid of, the reason he'd been hiding what he was like it was something shameful and wrong. Because their father would see the beast, the monster, the hunt, and not the man and son at the core.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" John countered fiercely as he recovered from the shock of his youngest decking him.

Sam was tired and worn thin, his body seemingly on a hair trigger and fit to explode. It had been a brutal day and he felt wrung. John was testing him when Sam had already been a volcano ready to blow. His hands were in tight fists at his sides.

Sam took a few deep breaths. "If you're going to treat Dean like a damn _hunt_, don't bother coming back."

John gaped at Sam a moment. Then, ominously, he said, "He's not human anymore, Sam."

"So what are you going to do? Waste him? Put a bullet in him? In _Dean_? _Your son_?"

John didn't answer, and Sam knew why. John hadn't really thought about what he was going to do, just what he had seen. He only knew how those kinds of creatures, like the creature Dean had become, were categorized in his world of supernatural enemies… he hadn't factored in the creature being his son, too. Not yet.

Sam went to the car door and wrenched it open. He shot a dangerous look at his father. "If you're going to see the hunt and not your son, don't even come near us. We don't need you if you're going to look at him like he's a _thing_."

Without waiting for his father's response, Sam got into the Impala and drove off, leaving his father behind and heading back to Dean.

To Be Continued…


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Another short one, I know, but the chapter after this is a whopper. If only chapters would have the courtesy of being the same length this would be so much easier!

* * *

The drive back gave Sam time to cool off, and when he pulled into the motel parking lot he wasn't angry anymore. He just felt sorry for Dean. Dean had done everything, had hidden his lycanthropy from John for years, and now it was all for nothing. John knew.

And he'd reacted just as badly as Dean had known he would.

Sam let himself into the room he shared with his brother and Dean, lying under the covers of one of the beds, opened his eyes and looked up at Sam. Sam saw Dean tense then relax again when John didn't follow.

Sam closed the door behind him and offered a weary (but hopefully reassuring) smile.

Sam dropped the bundle of clothes and Dean's shoes on a chair and went over to Dean's bed. "Hey… let me take a look." Sam gently pushed on Dean's shoulder to roll his brother on to his back and pulled down the covers. Dean had showered but hadn't put on a new shirt (probably knowing his upper body would be subject to examination when Sam got back).

"I'm fine," Dean muttered, even as he let Sam hover. A Winchester at least had to protest too much attention to injuries… it was a part of reaffirming their manliness.

"Shut up," Sam said gently and peered closer at the wound. It looked a lot better than it had in the woods. Remarkably better. Supernaturally better.

"Did you…" Sam began to ask.

Dean nodded. "Started bleeding again when I got out of the shower, so I turned then changed back again. Did wonders for the cut, but it wiped me out. I think a banshee could have come through here while I was sleeping and I wouldn't have known it. How long have you been gone?" Dean looked around the room, confused and slightly disoriented.

Sam gently pulled the covers up over Dean's chest again and sat down on the edge beside his brother. He didn't really know for sure, but it honestly didn't matter. "Few hours."

Dean grunted.

"At least you're looking better," Sam noted.

"You look like shit."

Sam snorted and let the bone-weariness plaguing him sag his figure. He'd been so determined not to look weak in front of John, dead set as he was on defending Dean, but alone with Dean Sam could stop faking. The encounter with John, and his attacking Dean, came at the tail-end of an already monumentally shitty day. Sam felt ground to the bone, and didn't doubt he looked it, and Dean naturally had to do the brotherly thing and point it out. "Thanks," Sam said sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Dean answered. Then he froze. Warily, he looked toward Sam. "Where's Dad?" he croaked thinly.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know."

Dean frowned, puzzled.

Sam sighed. "We sort of got into an argument."

Dean chuckled. "How do you two manage to get into a fight in record time every time?"

Sam smirked. "I don't know, it just seems to happen."

Dean's smile faded and he shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "Were you fighting about me?"

Sam didn't see the point in lying. Dean had to already know he had been the topic of conversation. Trying to feed Dean such a blatant lie would just be insulting. "Yeah."

Dean's whole body tensed. "Sam… you two find enough reasons to fight already; don't make me one of them."

Sam could feel his jaw clenching again as he remembered everything John had said. And not so much what he said as _how_ he'd said it.

Dean was quiet a moment, then asked, "Did you tell him?"

"Only what I had to," Sam answered softly. "Not much, actually. I didn't _want_ to tell him anything."

"Well, no, I don't either, but the cat's pretty much out of the bag at this point."

"Wolf's out of the bag, you mean," Sam deadpanned.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Funny."

Sam faked a smirk and shook his head. "He tried to get all these answers from me, and I just… lost it, I guess. I told him to stay away from us until he can be an adult about this."

Dean's eyes widened as he looked up at Sam. "Seriously?"

Sam nodded.

Dean looked bewildered. "So, what… now we wait?"

"Now we wait," Sam agreed. "Or… we could take off."

Dean looked sharply at Sam. "You mean… run from Dad?"

Sam nodded cautiously, meeting Dean's eyes squarely and gauging his big brother's reaction to the idea. Sam would do it in a heartbeat. They didn't need John, hadn't since they were young and had been forced to learn to depend only on each other while their dad was gone hunting. Which was a lot. If John was going to make Dean hate himself, hate being what he loved, then it was an easy decision as far as Sam was concerned. Get with it or get out. After spending so much time alone on the road with Dean after Stanford, Sam had begun to think of the two of them as the Winchester family. They had John outnumbered two to one. Sam felt that gave them the right to say what that meant, being a member of the Winchester family.

If Sam said as much to his older brother, Dean would probably accuse him of trying to get even with John for throwing _him_ out of the family with that bone-chilling ultimatum 'if you leave, don't ever come back.'

And maybe there was a grain of truth in that, but right now it was neither here nor there. This was all on Dean, whatever _he_ wanted to do.

Dean frowned slowly. "We… we can't."

"We could."

"I won't," Dean clarified.

Sam shrugged his acceptance. "Then we wait." Sam stood from the bed. "I'm going to hit the shower then I'll go pick us up something to eat."

"Two great ideas, Sammy," Dean gave Sam a small shove to get him off the bed. "You reek and I'm starving."

"You're a jerk," Sam said with a smirk.

"Bitch," Dean countered as he burrowed back into his pillow to sleep some more.

Sam tried to be quiet in the attached bathroom, mindful of his recuperating brother in the next room, and let his mind wander as he washed the forest grim and Dean's blood from his body. Dean wouldn't run from their father. He never had, now that Sam thought about it, and Sam should have expected Dean's answer to stay and face the music now. Sam was the one who ran away, not Dean. No matter how ugly it got, Dean stuck in there.

Now they waited to see what John Winchester would do after finding out his son could become a wolf. If nothing else, it should prove interesting.

To Be Continued…


	12. Chapter 12

Dean was semi-conscious when Sam got out of the shower and barely aware of his brother moving around the room as he got dressed. They were familiar, non-threatening sounds to him, and he slept through them peacefully.

He thought he could probably sleep straight through to tomorrow morning without any trouble whatsoever. He felt like he was literally running on fumes. He'd been pushed beyond the boundaries of exhaustion on a hunt before. He'd nursed vicious wounds before, some even worse than the knife wound he received from his father in the woods. But this was the first time he'd had to flip flop between man and wolf to repair a severely damaged, already weakened body.

His first transformation, as he lay dying cradled in Skye's arms, had been different. He hadn't noticed the toll it physically took for the nerve-searing pain that had consumed him. Everything about that change had been horrific; it would have been impossible to pick apart all the different kinds of horrific and assign them different labels. It was easier to put aside the whole experience as the single most agonizing moment of his life.

Today had taken so much out of him. Far more than he would have expected when the change, since that first time, had become so effortless for him.

It made Dean aware of just how much energy and strength the transformation took, a feat he had taken for granted. The turning saved his life, but he'd barely made it to the bed before he collapsed and passed out more than fell asleep.

It seemed he'd just closed his eyes and fallen in a black void for only a few seconds before he heard the door lock click and opened his eyes to see Sam coming back to the room looking surly and broody.

It was Sam's John Winchester face, and Dean hadn't missed it since those days before Stanford when their family had been on the brink of self-destruction. Less than a day reunited with their dad and the look was back on Sam's face.

Sam suggested running. It was tempting, but Dean knew it wasn't a fix to any of his problems. It was just Sam's last resort to escaping the force of nature that was John Winchester. Dean knew how Sam felt; he was well aware of the tsunami their father's mere presence could be. Sam went the route of getting out of the path of the storm. Dean hunkered down to weather it. That was just the way they dealt with their father's almost superhuman effect.

But this time, running had been _really_ tempting.

Dean didn't want to see that look of revulsion in John's eyes again (the look that John could not help – it was reflex to him as a seasoned hunter), but taking off without warning wouldn't change the fact that John _knew_. Knew that his oldest son, the boy he'd proudly made so much in his own image, was a _creature_.

The look on John's face had been as piercing as the bite of the knife slicing through Dean's flesh.

Dean dreaded seeing that look coming from their father again. The same flicker of disgust in those dark, penetrating eyes that Dean had seen aimed at unnatural, repugnant _things_ that did not deserve to live (and by John's hand, would not) all his life. His dad would level that hateful gaze at _him_, and the thought crippled Dean.

Dean applied himself to not thinking about what he was going to do about their father. Not when his body was still sapped dry. Sam had warded him off, at least for a little while, and Dean would take it to recover.

In the edges of his awareness, Dean heard Sam leave to get dinner, and for a serene moment Dean reveled in the very heavy sound of his own breathing, his body seemingly a lead weight sunk into the mattress. He'd like nothing more than to fall back into painless oblivion, but lying around so long would not be in true Winchester fashion. Dean had already slept hours of the day away, and his injury was not even life-threatening anymore.

'_I won't tolerate laziness in this family_,' John's hard voice echoed in Dean's head.

Definitely time to get up.

Dean eased himself out of bed and rustled up some fairly decent clothes. He felt tired more than injured, which was promising. Hopefully a good night's sleep, a decent meal in his stomach, and he'd be well on the road back to fighting fit.

He might need to be in order to face his father.

A knock sounded at the door and Dean paused. It couldn't be Sam. Sam would just let himself in.

Swallowing his trepidation, Dean crossed the room to the door and peered out the peephole.

He hadn't expected John to show up so soon. John had timed his arrival to coincide with Sam's departure so perfectly that Dean wondered if John hadn't been hanging back, watching and waiting for Sam to clear out so he and Dean could be alone.

Dean sighed, steeled himself, and opened the door.

His father stood in the threshold, staring at him in silence. Dean didn't often see his dad lost for words. John had come, but he didn't really look like he knew where to go beyond knocking on the door.

Dean stepped back to allow John inside. "Didn't think you'd show this soon," Dean mumbled.

John entered the room and softly closed the door behind him. "Maybe I shouldn't have." Then silence. Uncomfortable, watchful silence.

Dean could feel John watching him, studying him… almost like he was _hunting_ him.

"Sam went to get something to eat," Dean said hollowly as he moved toward his bed. He didn't want to face his father, didn't want to address _this_, sitting and looking so far up at his dad, but he wasn't going to keep the wobble out of his knees if he stood much longer.

Dean plopped down on his bed and waited with baited breath for John to make the next move.

John took a few steps closer then stopped. "Dean…"

Dean looked up and met a very guarded, controlled face. His father's mask. He usually got to look past that. It was gut-wrenching, but no less than what Dean had expected.

John gathered his resolve. "_What_…"

"Am I?" Dean finished wearily.

John nodded stolidly.

Dean answered reluctantly, "A lycanthrope."

He saw John stiffen, grow ramrod straight and Dean _knew_, for half a second, John longed for a weapon. A silver-bullet loaded gun. Dean felt the twist in his guts, sharp and strong, and he looked away from John as the source.

"God, Dean," John rasped, "I knew it was bad, but a damn _werewolf_…"

"I'm not a werewolf," Dean said.

John studied him intently.

"Lycanthrope, Dad… they're different."

John looked hesitant, but at least he was listening. "I didn't know that," he said after a long pause.

"Obscure, little-known fact in our line of work," Dean said with a tense one-shoulder shrug.

John continued to stand rooted to the spot, watching Dean with entirely too much intensity.

Dean finally said, "Could you sit down? I won't bite."

John flinched. Dean knew Sam would have smirked.

Slowly, John came closer, rounded Sam's bed, and sat on its edge facing Dean. He didn't lean forward with elbows on his knees like he usually would. He stayed upright, sitting back and watching Dean.

Dean hated it. He hated he was something his father couldn't understand.

"Sam said you've been like this for years."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, close to three now."

From the look that passed over John's face, Dean knew John was thinking back three years, to every moment he had spent with Dean and dissecting each for any sign that _this_ was what had become of his son.

"What else did Sam tell you?" Dean asked, unable to stand the silent scrutiny any longer.

"Pathetic little," John groused, and Dean smiled faintly, despite himself.

"It was practically impossible to get any real answers out of him. Anything I said turned into him yelling at me. Honestly, he was too livid to talk to."

Dean looked up at that.

John shook his head. "Sam's always been a pit bull, but I've never seen him so aggressive toward protecting _you_." That, of course, had always been Dean's job when it came to Sam.

But Dean had a vague idea of what John meant. He'd noticed a change in his younger brother, too. When Sam found out Dean was a lycanthrope, after the shock passed, he was curious first, then accepting and adjusting, then he bled into staunchly protective. He made the keeping of Dean's secret come before all else (except, apparently, Dean's very life). Sam would give up ground on a hunt (to Dean's annoyance) if it was the only way to safeguard the secret of Dean's lycanthropy. Sam had taken it upon himself to be the guardian of Dean's secret, and Dean let him because there were just some things not worth fighting about when it came to Sam… Dad was right. Sam could be a pit bull.

It was a little irritating sometimes, but more than anything Dean found it reassuring. It hadn't been a mistake letting Sam find out. Sam didn't see him as any less of his brother for what he had become.

"Well," Dean said slowly, "Sam knows this is something that could get me killed." At that, Dean looked up pointedly at his father. It was then he noticed the bruise blooming on John's jaw. Dean narrowed his eyes, "Did Sam _hit_ you?!"

John touched the bruise on his jaw and smirked. "Boy packs a wallop, I'll give him that."

"Sam just said you two argued…" Dean said lamely. He'd have to ask Sam later how 'argue' led to 'decking Dad'.

John lowered his hand and canted his head slightly. His voice dropped and that platoon commander turned father was back. "How did you let this happen?"

Dean stiffened. "I didn't have much choice," Dean almost whispered. "The alternative was death." Dean wouldn't elaborate unless Dad ordered him to. He couldn't make his father understand Skye. He would never understand Dean loving her, despite knowing what she was. It had been natural with Sam. Sam was a softie like that… he'd forgive just about anything if the rationale was rooted in love. It was sappy as hell, but it was true, and it was why Dean told Sam about Skye.

John Winchester wouldn't understand. He wouldn't think of Skye as a person, and therefore he had no right to know about her. Dean would protect her memory, the last precious thing of hers he had.

John sat very still and very quiet, processing that information. His son had opted for lycanthropy as an alternative to dying. Whether that was the right move or not took time for John to consider.

Finally, John gave a grave, if not reluctant, nod. "And in three years… you never found anything to undo this?"

The thought had never even crossed Dean's mind. So he could honestly answer, "No." Hadn't found it because he hadn't looked for it. Never wanted to.

Another in a long list of things he could not tell his father.

John mulled that over. "You should have come to me, Dean."

"Dad?" Dean asked, confused.

"It's going to be okay, son."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Uh… it is?"

John stood and began to pace the room. "Yes. I get it… this _condition_ you have is rare. Not really surprising that in three years you couldn't find a cure. But I know a lot of people in the business. A lot more than you do. Give me some time, and I can probably track down an expert in anything and everything you can imagine. One of them might know of a way to get this out of you."

'But it _is_ me!' Dean wanted to scream. The wolf wasn't an inflamed appendix that could be removed with a scalpel. Instead of trying to explain that to his father, Dean ducked his head and felt the hurt twisting him inside.

John was running under his own unstoppable power now. He had a plan of action, purpose, a goal, and his weapons were locked on target.

John moved toward Dean, coming closer than he had since the doorway. "It's going to be okay, Dean. I'm going to take care of this." John put a hand on his son's shoulder.

It felt so heavy. His father was dead set on tearing the wolf out of him. He wouldn't rest until he'd found a way to put Dean back the way he was before.

Dean didn't want to go back to that. He _was_ the wolf. It was him, and Skye, and oneness and belonging to the world in a way Dean had never belonged anywhere before.

He was happy as he was.

But his father hadn't even touched him until he was confident Dean could be 'fixed'. If Dean even tried to tell John that he wanted to stay the way he was, a walker of two worlds…

John would disown him.

Dean had no delusions about how that would go. He'd seen John do it to Sam. The screaming match had been horrific. The words flung cut to the bone. Even now, years later, the ghost of what they had said to each other still haunted every moment John and Sam were in the same room together. They were never the same since then and never would be. John told Sam to leave and never come back; walk out the door and don't expect to be let back in. And really, Sam never had gone back and Dad made good on his threat. Sam turned his back on John's closed door and went to Dean's doorstep instead. The one door that was never locked.

Unless Dean wanted to have that door slammed in his face too, to be a misunderstood thing to his father, he would have to give up freedom. Joy. Peace. The legacy of Skye.

"Sure, Dad," Dean croaked. He'd had three years knowing what it meant to be content down to his soul. If not happy in having everything he could ever want, then at peace knowing he had found his place in the universe. That was three more than he'd ever expected in the first place. He'd have to learn to accept that.

Because he knew somehow, someway, his father would find a way to remove the wolf. John Winchester was nothing if not relentless. A lifetime hunting a demon to repay it for one fiery night was proof enough of that.

The motel room door lock turned and Dean looked up as Sam came into the room laden with fast food bags. He was already edgy; he had to have seen John's truck in the lot.

Sam's eyes shot darkly to John.

Before another fight could break down, Dean said, "Sam… it's all right."

Sam looked quickly down at Dean. He was trying to read his brother's face.

John made the next move. He stepped toward Sam. "Sam… don't worry about your disrespectful tone with me before. I understand now. I want you to know I'm proud of you."

Sam blinked, clearly shocked. "What?"

"You've been looking out for your brother, even through this," John motioned vaguely in Dean's direction. 'This', naturally, being the lycanthropy.

Sam gaped, looking between Dean and John. "Huh?"

Dean would have laughed if he didn't feel so broken.

John smirked. "I can't imagine it's been easy. But you should have come to me. Both of you. I take care of you boys, that's my job. And I'm going to take care of _this_, I promise."

Sam cast Dean a faint 'what the hell is he talking about?' look. Dean just shook his head. 'Don't,' he begged with his eyes.

Sam clamped his mouth shut and turned his attention back to his father.

John was moving for the door. "I better get going. I have some calls to make, old friends to visit, favors to call in. I'll be in touch; I'll let you know as soon as I have something. You boys watch out for each other." At the open door, John paused and looked at Sam, "Oh, and Sam? Next time you hit me, I'm hitting back."

Sam stiffened angrily and set his jaw in defiance.

John matched him, ire for ire, before he closed the door and was gone.

Sam turned to his brother, expression completely baffled. "What was that?"

Dean sighed. "Dad and his idea of helping."

Sam frowned. "What did you tell him, Dean?"

"The truth."

Sam didn't say anything for a moment, then he ventured, "And?"

Dean snorted. "And what do you think?"

Sam's face fell and his shifted uneasily a second. With a sigh, he approached the nightstand between the two beds and put down the food. He sat down wearily on his own bed and looked sympathetically at Dean. "What was all that talk about 'take care of this'?"

Dean dug into one of the bags and pulled out a greasy burger. "He thinks this is something that can be cured."

Sam became indignant, "Did you tell him-"

"No. And I'm not going to. And you better not, either."

"But-"

"I mean it, Sam. Not a word to Dad."

Sam blinked at him. "So if he comes walking through that door, or one just like it, two, three months from now with a cure-"

"He won't. Because there isn't one." Dean even sounded convincing to himself.

Sam paused and thought a second. "Did you tell him that?"

Dean shook his head. "Let him chase the idea. As long as he thinks he can 'cure' me, he doesn't hate me."

Sam scowled and clenched his jaw. Finally, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. I know what that's like."

Dean shrugged. Bitch of it was, Sam _did_ know. Dean idly entertained the idea of naming his wolf 'Stanford', just for the poetic irony of it. Why did it seem so impossible to please their father?

He unwrapped the burger in his hand, but wasn't really hungry anymore. He looked up at Sam and asked, "So what's this about you hitting Dad?"

Sam smirked. "He had it coming."

Dean laughed. "Sammy… you've got brass ones, I'll grant you. Hitting Dad? I wouldn't."

Sam smiled. "You should… feels pretty good."

Dean threw his pillow at his brother. "That is just so wrong, dude."

Sam chuckled and reached into the sack for his own burger. After a couple of bites, he asked, "So… what are we going to do about Dad?"

Dean swallowed. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

Dean nodded. It was time to hunker down and brace for the storm. If he had his way, Sam would have them stand defiant in the gales, screaming rebellion, but Dean had seen the kind of hell that brought upon the family. He didn't want to be the reason his family began yelling at one another. He'd seen all the fighting and head-butting he could stomach watching Sam and John go at it for years.

Dean wouldn't invite that again. Once in a lifetime was enough.

He'd just have to hope it was a long, long time before John came across a way to rip the wolf from him. After all, a lot could happen between now and then.

To Be Continued…


	13. Chapter 13

They didn't talk about Dad. They didn't talk about him, but his shadow seemed to cast itself over them wherever they went. No place was far enough to outdistance the presence of John Winchester. Sam and Dean were both tense and uncomfortable, as though their father's reaction to the truth about his oldest son had unleashed a cancer. It lingered between the brothers, a silent _wrong_ in a strange new existence that had become so _right_.

For two weeks, Dean refused to change. It was as though he thought John would somehow know and be disappointed if Dean gave into the wolf. Without allowing himself time to be the wolf, Dean's mood suffered. He stopped smiling. Sam tried to cajole him into forgetting about Dad, tried to convince him into running, but Dean wouldn't do it. The look in his eyes told Sam why.

On the next full moon, Dean opted not to go outside. He stayed in the motel room with his brother, as though it might actually make a difference to be locked up and unable to see the moon. It was like a form of torture for Sam to have to watch what their father had done to Dean (and had done with no more than a few words).

Dean couldn't escape the wolf that night. It would rise up against the refrain Dean had been exercising for weeks and there would be nothing Dean could do to stop it. He couldn't best the beast on that night, and he knew it.

As night approached, Sam stayed on his bed and out of the way. Dean was a walking thunderstorm, pacing the room like a madman, his energy levels in overdrive. Dean was clearly agitated. He looked fit to climb the walls.

Night fell and Dean began to sweat. And still he paced.

Sam didn't say a word. There was nothing to say. Sam had been trying to talk Dean into this for weeks and Dean hadn't budged. It would happen tonight, whether Dean wanted it to or not. There seemed no reason to point out what they both already knew.

Testament to the stubborn streak in Dean Winchester, knowing the futility of fighting didn't stop Dean from doing just that. The fever was the first sign of the wolf struggling to wrest control of the body. In little time, Dean's shirt was drenched and sticking to his body. And still he paced. Still he fought the change.

Sam wanted to hit John all over again. Punch him and demand to know how he could do this to Dean.

After a drawn-out bout of pacing and perspiring, Dean lost his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it aside with a piteous scowl, a hated and painful concession to the inevitable. He was already barefoot, padding on the balls of his feet. Already moving like the wolf, even if the human form was holding on for all its worth.

Sam felt Dean's pain as if it were his own. '_Change_,' he silently begged his brother. '_Please, Dean, just change_.'

Dean's stride faltered as his body began to lose the battle. Dean bared his teeth in a grimace but still he would not give in to the transformation.

He was dripping sweat. Finally, the last of his clothes were shed. Sam didn't even consider making a joke about Dean's rampant nudity this time. Dean continued an agonized, restless circuit around the room. As though he could outpace the wolf.

In the corner of the room, Dean just crumpled. His hands came out to catch himself on the intersecting walls and his back bowed. His head drooped and he began to sink to the floor.

Sam's hair stood on end. This was it.

For the fight Dean had put up, the change happened with so little fanfare. It was a crouching human one minute, wolf the next.

For a heartbeat after the change, Sam held his breath and watched. He didn't know what Dean would do now that the thing he'd fought so hard had overcome him.

Dean sat in the corner, head hanging low. His ears were cast to either side miserably, his tail disturbingly still against the garish carpet.

The wolf was a creature full of life and energy. Dean was still as stone, resigned and ashamed as the wolf never was. Should never be. Self-pity did not become such a noble creature.

Hesitant, Sam got off his bed and moved toward Dean.

There was no flicker of movement from the wolf to indicate he even heard Sam approaching, though Sam knew Dean's senses were now incredibly acute. He couldn't _not_ hear him.

When Sam was alongside the wolf he knelt, eyes locked on the animal.

The listlessness of the wolf was so ungodly wrong Sam wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered, "Dean?"

Dean looked over at him slowly with solemn golden eyes.

Sam settled himself more comfortably on the floor then began to reach out a hand. Just short, he paused. He had never petted Dean before. His brother wasn't a dog. He was still Dean inside, and his brother wouldn't take kindly to being coddled like he was the family retriever.

Dean saw Sam's hand come close and stop, hanging in midair. He knew what his brother meant to do. Instead of indignant or annoyed, Dean looked up into Sam's eyes desperately.

The wolf made the next move. With a small shift, he sidled in closer to Sam and ducked his head beneath Sam's hand. He lifted his muzzle to lightly rest his chin on Sam's shoulder. Sam's hand had fallen on the wolf's shoulder in the process.

Sam gently hugged the wolf, both hands threading into the animal's fur. Sam could feel the amulet at Dean's throat pressed into his chest.

There were so many things Sam wanted to say. So many things he thought Dean needed to hear. Needed to hear, but Sam knew better. Dean wouldn't listen. He rarely did when it came to unkind opinions of John Winchester. Instead of trying to impress all his feelings upon his distressed brother, Sam simply muttered into the wolf's coat, "He has no right… no right to make you feel like this."

Dean pulled his chin away from Sam's shoulder, and Sam was afraid even that little comment had been saying too much. Instead of moving away, Dean ducked his face and rested his forehead against Sam's chest, burying his face in his brother and hiding from the world.

* * *

Sam stayed on the floor all night with Dean. The hug-fest didn't last much longer than two or three minutes, but the brothers sat a long time, side by side, listening to the ticking second hand on the nightstand clock.

Sam nodded off propped against the closed motel room door, and when he woke Dean was himself again, tucking a comforter he'd pulled off one of the beds around Sam's shoulders. It made Sam remember the days when he'd been small enough that Dean would have carried him to bed, ever the caring and attentive big brother.

When Dean realized Sam was awake, he froze.

"Dean?" Sam looked up blearily at his brother. "You okay?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He thought about it. Then he nodded. "I'm okay."

Sam chased away the fog of sleep and studied Dean's expression long and hard. He had to know Dean was telling the truth.

Sam knew he was when, at last, Dean smiled.

"Come on, Sasquatch, now that you're awake, let's move this slumber party over to a bed."

Sam rose stiffly from his place on the floor and let Dean lead him toward one of the rumpled beds. He plopped down and gratefully collapsed into the pillow. Dean sat down on the opposite bed, watching his younger brother with quiet intensity.

Even sleep-mused, Sam felt it. He opened his eyes and looked across at Dean. He looked healthier. The wolf had that effect on him.

"Let's go camping tomorrow night," Sam suggested on a whim. At a more reasonable hour, the sudden suggestion might have been laughable. At the brink of dawn, it was poignant.

Dean stared. They both knew what Sam meant by 'camping'.

Finally, Dean nodded. "Okay, Sammy."

Sam smiled. A year ago, he would not have been able to fathom his older brother becoming a wolf at will. Now, the world was not right until Dean had relented to becoming one.

Sam wouldn't look forward to stiff muscles and aching joints from another night spent on the ground, but he did look forward to seeing Dean run.

To Be Continued…


	14. Chapter 14

He smelled her first. That unique and earthy scent of pine and fresh air that _was_ her surrounded him softly as she crept up on him from behind while he sat poring over a local newspaper.

Then her body heat pressed gently against his back, sending a reciprocal rush of heat through his own body. His nostrils flared to catch her smell. His pupils dilated, reacting to her nearness.

He didn't let on he knew she was stalking him.

Next her hair, dark locks brushing feather-light against the back of his neck. They made him shiver. He had no idea what he was pretending to look at anymore. There was only her.

Her breath, warm and enchanting, brushing at the nape of his neck. The soft sound of her breathing so close to his ear, driving him beyond the ability to reason.

Then it was her lips pressing against the nape of his neck, silky and intoxicating, stamping him as hers.

Then her teeth lightly scraping against the skin of the back of his neck. The smallest touch of the tip of her tongue on his skin.

His body jolted. It surged. It felt like liquid lightning, like the wolf on the hunt.

He was on the hunt for _her_.

He reached for Skye.

In one smooth motion, he turned in his seat, slipped out of the chair, and captured her around the waist with a possessive arm. They were backing up, crossing the room blindly, then the motel bed rose up behind them. They fell in a tangle of limbs, Dean's body trapping hers beneath him.

She laughed against him, pleased and happy just where she was. Just where he was.

The feeling was definitely mutual.

Dean braced himself on one elbow to draw back and look down at her. Her dark eyes were shining up at him, her mouth curved in a sultry smile. The feel of her alive under him was a drug. Heady and perfect.

"I could have killed you," she said playfully.

Dean smirked. "I smelled you coming from across the room."

Skye lifted an eyebrow at him. "You only changed two days ago… can you have been so quick to bond with the wolf?"

"I think it has more to do with you," he answered honestly.

"You bonded that quickly with _me_?" she asked, dubious but content to play along. She thought he was exaggerating.

"You have no idea," he said. Because she didn't. She didn't realize that Dean Winchester didn't fall for them. He made love to them, but he didn't love them. So rarely did he let them in, let them become more than a night passing through town.

It had been different with Skye, from the first moment she tackled him to the ground to save her pack mate.

"Mmmm," Skye purred and shifted below him. Her body moved against his and Dean lost his mind for half a heartbeat. He was only an animal with a need, with a mate to fill it, a perfect moment in time that he meant to grab by the throat.

His eyes flashed gold.

Skye gazed up affectionately at him. She freed a hand and touched his face softly. "You know… I think you're right."

"I'm always right," he quipped.

Skye shook her head, her smile turning lopsided. "You are so full of yourself."

"I know, I know… do you want to be full of me, too?"

She laughed, quick and surprised. He loved that about her. She didn't ask herself if she should laugh or love or hate or fear. She just did. She listened to her heart. She did not question or doubt.

That was for men, and she was wolf.

Her hand went to his shoulder and slipped past the collar of his shirt to touch his skin. "Should we? So soon after you almost…" she frowned. Her eyes became sad and scared for what had almost happened to him. She bit her lip and looked up into his eyes again.

Dean's heart was pounding. He knew he should be weak. He knew he should be hurting after what he had gone through only two days ago.

But he didn't feel weak. He didn't feel pain. He felt strong and unstoppable.

He felt the wolf, this amazing new life she had opened up for him. With her blood and his, the taste of copper they had shared.

"I want you," Dean stated in a gravelly voice. He stared into her eyes. Let her see his world in his gaze. The world he offered to her.

Skye blinked heavily. Her hand left his shoulder to rake through the hair at the back of his head. "Can I tell you what I think?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. "Could I stop you?" His free hand was moving, unfastening the buttons down the front of her shirt.

Skye curled a leg to frame his hips and tugged at the bottom of his shirt. "I think…" she lifted the shirt up his body, "that this is what you were always meant to be."

Dean gently pushed the unbuttoned shirt off her shoulder. He dipped to kiss her bared throat. Skye titled her chin back to give it to him. Dean's body trembled at the gesture. He knew how much it meant to her. To him now, too. His body thrummed with what the bared throat meant to the wolf.

Skye forced him to pull away from her so she could take his shirt off. It was tossed aside, lost to nothingness, and Skye curled up to return the shoulder kiss. Dean canted his head to the side, offering her his throat.

Skye growled softly and her teeth closed, gentle and perfect, against the soft skin of his neck. The intimacy and trust in it was a beast unto itself. It ruled and owned and set free. Dean's eyes rolled back and he groaned.

Skye's teeth left him and then her hands were tracing over his bare back. "This is who you are supposed to be," she whispered into his ear. "I know it," she emphasized her point with reaching for the fly of his jeans.

"I don't believe in destiny," he grunted while working on her jeans in retaliation.

Skye lay back on the mattress and met his eyes. Dean paused because she wanted him to. He would do so much for her, do it all gladly because she wanted him to. The world filtered through her desires was an all-together different universe, and Dean was happy there. He never thought a world existed where he could be. That unexpected Eden was bathed not by the sun, but in moonlight. Moonlight and Skye.

Skye curled her hands up under his arms, holding him as though he might leave her. "I do… your soul was always the wolf. It was a spirit waiting for form. You were always meant to be one of us."

It did feel like the wolf was the missing piece of a puzzle. Like his life had become complete.

But could he say if it was the wolf or Skye? No. Maybe they were one and the same. She was wolf and Skye. His single answer to a question he'd never known he had.

It didn't matter to him. There was only the two of them.

Dean leaned down and kissed her. Their lips met and slanted open, tongues touching and caressing.

Skye whimpered and Dean drew back to look at her. The eyes he met were gold. Her lips were parted, her body so alive. If he was liquid lightning, she was, too. They would make the heavens crack and light up when their bodies joined.

Skye reached for him again. She traced her thumb over his bottom lip. She looked into his very soul, to the wolf she had awakened in him. Her mate.

"I think I've been waiting for you for a very long time," she whispered almost reverently.

Dean curled his arm possessively around her waist and held her close to him by the small of her back. "I'm here," he said lowly. He dropped his head to the crook of her shoulder and breathed against her neck, "I'm here." Then he kissed her, devoured her, was consumed by her.

Skye grasped at him, hands pressed into his shoulders, his back, his chest.

They rolled, a blur of skin and her long, dark hair. Their hands quested blindly to discard the last of their clothes. To make their spirits one. To split the heavens with unleashed lightning.

A shrill sound made Dean start and the dream vanished, replaced by a dark motel room in a town Dean couldn't remember.

He blinked a moment, disoriented and flushed with arousal. He could not fathom for a second why Skye was not wrapped around him, pressed tightly to his body. The cold of his empty bed was bone-chilling and he didn't understand.

Then it rushed back at him in a second.

It had only been a dream, then. Or nearly a memory. But in either case, it was gone. Skye was gone.

And that noise again that had stolen her ghost from him, screaming in the night. His phone.

Dean groaned grumpily and untangled himself from his sheets. Sam was still in his bed, sleeping hard and not even shifting at the sound of the phone.

Dean passed the room's mirror on his way to find the screaming phone. He caught a glimpse of his reflection. Of a sweaty brow, golden eyes, and unruly hair. Skye's memory was still achingly fresh, so real it seemed her touch still lingered on his skin.

Dean didn't know if he liked the dreams of her or not. They were so vivid, like she was really there, but waking to find her gone made that pain sharp and new again each time.

He remembered the days right after the Stanford fire, how Sam had started awake gasping Jessica's name. He imagined this was one agony his little brother would understand all too well.

Dean found his phone and cold dread swept through him when he recognized his father's number.

"No," he whispered miserably to himself. He knew. Somehow, he knew what his father would say.

Dean opened his phone anyway and brought it to his ear. "Yeah."

"Dean… hey, son. I know it's late, but I couldn't wait to tell you. I've found it."

Dean closed his eyes as the sound of his father's voice seemed like a vice around his chest, squeezing tighter with every passing second. "Really?"

John sounded triumphant. "Yeah… you wouldn't believe how many people I had to talk to, or the _kind_ of 'people' I had to talk to for that matter, but it paid off. There's a way to get it out of you, Dean. It's pretty complex – and it's going to hurt, I won't lie to you – but this is _it_."

Dean's heart was in his throat. _No_. No, no, no, no. "I… don't know what to say."

"I know… I'd almost lost hope, too. But I told you I would take care of it, son."

It felt like a death sentence, and Dean bowed his head for the axe to strike off his head.

The silence of the room seemed to scream at him. Deafening and dangerous. Time was to be feared now. Every second a countdown to death. Death for the wolf, but in so many ways it felt like a death for him, too.

"Dean?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Where are you boys now? I'm in California. I'd like us to meet up and get this done."

Dean froze for a moment. "Well… Sam and I are… kind of in the middle of something." They weren't, but Dean had panicked at the idea of setting a date. The idea of actually going forward with the execution of the wolf, of hitting the road as early as tomorrow morning and driving toward it, put his stomach in a cold knot.

"Dean… you know how important I think the hunt is, but sometimes there are things that come before everything else."

Dean's free hand was clamped in a desperately tight grip on the back of the chair at the motel room table. "Yeah… but… Sam's asleep right now, and… I'll get back to you on that, okay?"

There was a pause that radiated disapproval. "Dean…"

"Later, Dad." _Never_. But he couldn't put it off forever. He just wanted a few more days… he needed more time before he was cleaved in two.

John sighed. "All right. I guess I have to admire your tenacity for never giving up on a hunt. I can't really fault you for being true to how I raised you. You make me proud, Dean."

'You wouldn't say that if you knew how much you're killing me,' Dean thought miserably. "Chick flick, Dad," Dean grunted.

John chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go get some sleep, and talk to Sam in the morning."

"This job might take a few days to finish," Dean interjected.

John didn't like that, either, but he accepted it. "Okay. You've been stuck with _it_ three years; I guess a few more days won't make much difference."

A few more days would make all the difference. A few more days was all Dean needed right then. He couldn't do this without a few more days feeling whole.

"Good night, Dad," Dean breathed hollowly.

"Good night, Dean." Then the line went dead.

Dean dropped the phone numbly and backed up until the back of his legs hit the mattress. He dropped down heavily and stared, unblinking, into the darkness. He felt raw and empty.

John could be delayed only so long. Within a matter of days, his wolf would die.

Dean didn't want to think about the person that would be left behind.

Defeated, back bowed and arms limp in his lap, Dean dropped his chin to his chest. The darkness swallowed him. The only sounds were the faint whispers of traffic outside and Sam's deep breathing of sleep.

He thought he should probably move, should probably at least get back in bed, but he couldn't make his muscles obey. The night dragged on and Dean sat, unmoving, trying to come to grips with knowing he would lose the very thing that had given him happiness he had never thought he'd be entitled to.

He told himself he shouldn't be surprised. Shouldn't grieve. Winchesters weren't supposed to be happy, anyway. But still, to lose it was so much harder than to never have had it at all.

Wolf and Skye were alike in that respect. And soon, they would both share the honor of being things Dean loved dearly that were torn from him.

A few days hardly seemed enough. Dean would cry for the injustice of it all, but the universe cared little for the grief of a Winchester.

To Be Continued…


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: I have to admit, I breathed a huge sigh of relief after the last chapter was posted and there was not a barrage of flames in response.

Everyone in the SPN fandom knows that introducing a female character is like throwing a lit match in a box of dynamite. They might as well hang a sign on the show's cast that says NO WOMEN ALLOWED.

Skye was mentioned often throughout "Wild by Skye", but chapter 14 was the first we actually "meet" her, and I was expecting the backlash of haters for anything with estrogen in SPN. But no one who reviewed said they hated her. *wipes brow*

* * *

Sam could tell something was bothering Dean. He just didn't know what. He tried to think of something that might have happened to upset him, but there had been nothing. It was as though Dean just woke up in a bad mood.

The first day when Dean was unusually quiet and withdrawn, Sam had asked him what was wrong. Predictably, Dean just shrugged off the question and wouldn't talk about it.

Then Dean asked if they could go camping that night.

Dean _never_ asked. Sam was always the one to suggest they spend nights in the woods. Dean only asked to be outside on nights of the full moon, when the wolf would not be denied and they might as well be outside where the wolf could run. Any other time of the month, Dean didn't bring it up as a consideration. Sam was the one who catered to the wolf, made room in their lives for it to thrive. Dean didn't seem to think himself worthy of the indulgence. Sam begged to differ. So while Dean never suggested a night in the woods to free the wolf, he never argued against Sam when Sam suggested it.

It wasn't even close to a full moon, so when _Dean_ asked to spend the night outside, it worried Sam, but he readily agreed. Maybe the wolf was just the thing to cure whatever was bothering his brother.

That night, Dean was gone a long time. From well before the sun set until long after it rose the next morning.

Somewhere close to midnight, Sam started from his light doze by the fire when he heard a howl.

Dean never howled. He had always been a quiet wolf. Sam had even wondered if maybe only real wolves howled and not lycanthropes.

Sam sat up and listened to the sound of his brother howling in the night. He supposed it was just the nature of the howl, but it sounded so forlorn and sad.

* * *

They were closer to California than they had been two days ago. They weren't heading toward it, per se. They didn't have a job lined up or a lead they were following there. The roads Dean was taking just happened to meander toward California.

Sam just tended to notice when their path headed west. He tried not to think of California as any more special than any other state. There was nothing for him there anymore. But still, he'd lived there for two years. It was the closest thing, geographically, to home he'd ever known. Try to fight it though he might, he had a special place for it.

They'd stopped early for the day in a small town on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Sam wondered if maybe Dean hadn't done that intentionally. Maybe he meant to drink and screw his way out of this funk he'd gotten into lately. Sam didn't much care for the method, but maybe the end would justify the means.

Only Dean didn't ditch Sam and race to the nearest bar. As Sam gave it some more thought, Dean hadn't really done much of that since he'd picked Sam up from Stanford.

Dean still hustled pool and cleaned house in darts to get them some quick cash, and being Dean Winchester he still flirted like it was his last day on earth. But he didn't follow them home nearly as often as he used to. Sam tried to think of the last time Dean 'I saw, I conquered, I came' and he could only come up with a few that didn't predate Stanford.

Sam knew the reason was Skye. Dean would never admit as much, but Sam knew it just the same. She'd left a permanent impression on Dean beyond the wolf she'd given him.

Their hotel was literally on the ragged edge of town. To one side there were diners and a few gas stations, and to the other seemingly endless desert. Their room faced the latter.

When the sun was low in the sky, a burning red ball drifting toward the horizon, Dean flung open the door and left it that way. While Sam sat at the table in front of the window, curtains drawn open, he watched Dean walk out into the desert, stop, then sit down on the ground.

If Sam had a lick of artistic talent, he'd want to sketch the image he saw. Dean, a singular figure in a landscape otherwise void of any indication of human existence, watching the sun set in a flare of orange, gold, and crimson.

Sam gave him privacy. Dean had bouts where he needed to be left alone. Sam knew that from a lifetime shadowing Dean as an awe-struck little brother. Dean could bluster and bluff with the best of them, but when he was genuinely upset about something, he shut down and withdrew. That's how Sam knew when Dean was really angry or sad about something. He turned off. As long as Dean was yelling and griping, he was still pretty much fine.

After an hour, when the light coming through the window was too dim to really read by, Sam looked up again at his brother. Dean was in the same spot as before, only he'd lain back on the ground, hands behind his head.

Resolute, Sam closed his book and stood. He left the room, closed the door behind him, and walked toward Dean.

Dean was almost impossible to sneak up on these days. The wolf gifted him with unerring situational awareness… awareness even beyond that of a seasoned hunter. Dean had to know his brother was coming, but he didn't move from his spot at Sam's approach.

Sam came up alongside Dean and sat down beside him. The sun was drowning in the desert landscape, being pulled under and taking the light with it. The sky was maroon and burgundy and a few bold stars had come out to announce the coming night. A blistering sunspot in the day, Nevada was kind of pretty at night.

Sam glanced over at his brother. Dean's eyes were closed, but even still Sam could see uneasy lines in his face. He was still bothered by something.

"Hey," he said faintly.

Dean hummed a nonchalant answer.

Sam paused before he said, "Dean… what's going on?"

Dean cracked open an eye and looked up at Sam. "What do you mean?"

Sam could tell Dean knew damn well what he meant, but Dean never made these talks easy.

"I know something's bothering you. You've been distant for days."

Dean closed his eyes again and said nothing.

"Maybe if you let me help you…" Sam began weakly, frustrated that his brother was aching and wouldn't let Sam know why.

"You can't," Dean answered lowly.

Sam clenched his jaw. So there _was_ something wrong.

"Dean…"

"I've been dreaming about Skye," Dean said bluntly, opening both eyes to look up at Sam pointedly.

Sam swallowed. "Oh…" Shit. Dean was right. There was nothing Sam could do to help.

Sam, defeated and not happy about it, lay down beside his brother. Dean glanced over at him, considered him a moment, then closed his eyes again. Sam followed suit, letting his eyes drift closed.

The next time Sam opened his eyes, the sky was indigo and more stars had broken through the veil. He looked toward Dean, still lying quietly with eyes closed. Reposed, but not asleep.

"Dean."

Dean sighed as if to say 'I knew it wouldn't be that easy'. "What?"

"Do you regret it?"

Dean frowned and looked at him. "Regret what?"

Sam hesitated. He could be asking for trouble. "Meeting Skye. Becoming a lycan."

Dean balked visibly at the question. "Why are you asking?"

Sam turned his eyes back to the sky. "I just wonder sometimes… I wonder if things would have been better if I'd never met Jess." She would still be alive if he hadn't, and that had to be more important than Sam's happiness… right?

"Do you regret meeting her?" Dean asked, his tone sounding genuinely curious as to the answer Sam would give.

"I… I don't know. I'm not sure if it's really regret, but I don't know any other word for it. Things would be different if I'd never loved her." For better or worse, he didn't know, but it would be different. Maybe it would hurt less. He couldn't see how it could hurt more.

It was surprising how he could still miss her so much.

"No," Dean broke the silence that had fallen between them.

"What?" Sam turned his head to his brother, confused.

Dean didn't take his eyes from the sky as he said, "No, I don't regret it. I don't regret Skye. I don't regret what I am."

Even after all the grief and anguish their father had put Dean through for being a lycan, Dean still treasured it. It said even more about the wolf in Dean than Sam had concluded on his own. Of the wolf itself, Dean said little. His brother could never claim a poet's tongue. He answered Sam's questions dutifully, but almost clinically. He told Sam what it was, but not exactly how it felt to be the wolf (besides his initial description of 'fantastic'). That Dean felt no regret for the supernatural creature he had become told Sam so much. It told Sam how amazing and wonderful the wolf had to be for Dean (who would willingly march through the gates of hell to please John Winchester) to say he would not take back that choice that made him a lycan and therefore an undesirable _thing_ in John's eyes.

"Sometimes, I wish I could run with you," Sam murmured absently.

Expecting nothing more than offhand noises in response, Sam was surprised when Dean looked sharply at him, the laziness suddenly gone from his voice. "What?"

Sam shrugged.

Dean rose up to one elbow and angled his body so he could look more directly at Sam. "You asking me to turn you?"

That made Sam wonder. "Could you? I mean, can a lycan who wasn't born one – one that was turned into one like you – can they still turn a human into a lycan?"

Dean's look was positively dark. "Dude, I'm _not_ turning you."

Sam hadn't been asking Dean to. Though he couldn't deny that the thought had crossed his mind. Dean loved it. Even in the face of their father's disapproval, a thing that was worse than death to Dean, he still did not regret being a lycanthrope. If it was that amazing, why shouldn't Sam be part of it?

Sam had his own answer to that. Because Sam found his humanity too precious to share his being with an animal. He'd really given it thought (he had a lot of time for soul-searching these days with so many nights in the woods alone by a fire), but he knew he could never embrace it as Dean had. Since he was little, Sam had reached for normal too hard and too long to be willing to throw away the possibility of it ever happening in his life. And lycan would never be normal.

He was a dreamer, he supposed. Because what were the chances Sam would ever have a normal life? But just the same, he wasn't ready to rule out the _possibility_ of it.

"I'm not asking you to turn me," Sam assured.

"Good, because I _won't_."

Sam cocked his head. "Why are you so dead set against it? I mean, wouldn't it be my choice?" Sam paused when something else came to mind. "Besides, you said I was your 'pack', but I'm not really. But if I were like you, I could be."

Dean sat up, agitated. "Damnit, Sam."

He really didn't want to be a lycan. Why were they even discussing it? Sam supposed it was the former law student in him, arguing just for the sake of making an argument.

Dean turned to look down reproachfully at him. "You don't actually expect me to do something to you that would _endanger_ you. Make you a target. You have so much more going for you, Sammy. You don't need this."

"And you think you do?" Sam marveled at how little his big brother really thought of himself. He put on a good front, but when something slipped past his façade, it was not pretty underneath. He was a lot of bravado over pitiful little self-worth.

Sam wished Dean could think of himself even half what Sam thought of Dean.

Dean shrugged. "I'm making lemonade."

"What?"

"You know… when life gives you lemons…"

"Really, Dean… I'm not asking you to turn me. I was just thinking out loud." Sam studied the stars a moment. "But I could have run with you."

Dean went very still, maybe worried Sam wasn't about to let the matter go as idle 'thinking out loud' like he claimed it was. After a few long seconds, Dean relaxed. "I know… and part of me would have liked that. But I like having a camp to come home to, too."

Sam brought up his hands to lace his fingers together behind his head, making an impromptu pillow. Dean looped his arms around his shins, resting his chin on one knee. It made Sam flash back to when Dean was twelve, perched on the end of the bed with a shotgun in reach waiting for their father to come home, while Sam was tucked under the covers, protected and guarded. Back then, Sam had thought a twelve-year-old Dean all the protection from evil he would ever need.

Then he grew up and realized that his big brother wasn't indestructible. That had been a terrifying revelation; even more frightening than the dark corner of the closet or the space beneath the bed.

"You going to be okay?" Sam asked carefully.

Dean looked up at the rustler's moon laying claim to the sky the sun had abandoned. "I've never run in the desert before," he mused aloud, then began to strip out of his shirt.

Sam watched silently as Dean shed his clothes and turned. The wolf immediately tested the wind, examining the scents of the desert. He looked briefly at Sam, the 'don't wait up' look as Sam had dubbed it, then turned and trotted off into the night.

Sam watched him go and took note of the fact that Dean had never answered his question.

To Be Continued…


	16. Chapter 16

_Sam! miss you! gr8t news! just had a baby! wud luv 2 c u! Becky_

Sam stared sullenly at the text message on his cell phone. He'd heard his phone beep with an incoming message while he was sitting at a fast food joint table waiting for his brother. Dean had gone to the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving Sam to ponder his new text message that had arrived shortly after Dean announced his imminent bodily functions (to the chagrin of the mother of two at the next table).

They'd stopped for lunch in Arvin, California, outside of Bakersfield. Dean still seemed to be wandering aimlessly in a general westward direction with no destination in mind. Sam wondered if Dean would only change course when he hit the ocean and couldn't keep driving. But Sam wasn't picky. They didn't have a job to do, and it was nice to be back in California.

It was as though Becky had known he was close and sent him the message just to torment him. He knew she hadn't, but it still felt that way.

It was surreal. He remembered Becky, the college girl. She still had two years left toward her degree, but apparently her plans had changed since Sam had left Stanford. Now she was a mother. She'd fallen so effortlessly into that normal life Sam had fought tooth and nail to have… and lost. He was happy for her, but it hurt, too.

Sam stared at the text message a long time, tapping the fingers of his free hand idly against the table. They were so close to Palo Alto, and it would be nice to see some of his old friends again.

But it was a different world, a different life, and one that he now knew had no place for him. A Winchester need not even coming knocking, and there'd be hell to pay if they did.

He was just wondering if he could get away with a text message reply or if he should graciously decline the invitation to visit in an actual conversation when his brother's voice came from over his shoulder. "Who's Becky?"

Sam started and glanced back at Dean. He felt the foolish need to hide the message. "Ah… friend from Stanford."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the text. "And she's telling you about her popping out a kid?" He looked down scornfully at Sam. "There's not something you need to tell me, is there, little brother?"

"What? No!" Sam scowled indignantly. "Dean, it isn't _mine_."

Dean held up his hands. "Dude, just checking."

Sam continued to give him at dirty look.

Dean reclaimed his seat across from Sam and lifted his eyebrows expectantly. "So?"

Sam sighed. "Becky and her brother Zach were friends of mine… and Jess's." Sam closed his phone with heavy resignation and put it aside on the table. Though he tried to put it out of his mind, his eyes kept going back to the phone, as if it were a snake that might up and bite him if he turned his attention away from it.

Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him, but he didn't want to deal with what his older brother's gaze might say. So he didn't look.

"You want to stop by and do the whole social thing?" Dean asked. From his tone, Sam could tell Dean couldn't fathom why anyone would _want_ to do something like that (at least, not to visit a chick that he knew going in he had no chance of sleeping with), but he was asking just the same.

Sam didn't answer immediately, then he shook his head. "Nah… it's fine. I mean, would probably be weird anyway." And it probably would be weird, but still… Sam tried to tell himself it would be too weird and he had to forget about it. It would be better for everyone that way.

Dean studied Sam quietly a moment. Then he nodded to himself. His eyes cut to his own phone sitting on the table next to the wrapper of his decimated burger. His expression darkened for half a second. Before Sam could question it, Dean said, "Call her. Tell her you'll stop by."

Sam blinked, surprised at Dean's sudden capitulation. "What? Look, it doesn't matter."

"No, we're here. Might as well. I can tell you want to."

Sam chewed on his lip. He _did_ want to see his old friends again. Being his friends aside, it had a strange voyeuristic appeal. He might never have a family, children of his own, so seeing his friends celebrate the birth of a child might be the closest he would ever get to knowing what it was like.

"They'll ask questions…" Sam resisted lamely.

Dean shrugged. "So? If there's one thing a Winchester is good at, it's lying."

"You say that like it's something to be proud of," Sam grumbled.

"Whatever works. Call her."

Sam looked longingly at his phone, trying to imagine how the conversation would play out, what the visit would be like.

One of the children sitting at the next table began to screech in the throes of a temper tantrum.

Dean grimaced. "There's my cue. I'll meet you outside. Get what's her face's address."

"Becky's… you sure about this?" Sam asked one last time.

Dean was already standing and gathering his jacket in one hand. "Totally." Dean paused for half a second, then he reached over and picked up his phone. Again, there was a hint of something unreadable and strained in his face. Sam squinted at his big brother. What was going on in that head of his? Dean had been so closed off lately, in 'batten down the hatches' mode, that Sam was hard-pressed to get past the wall. At least he knew the wall was about Skye, but _what_ about her was troubling him _now_? That detail Dean had not disclosed, and Sam didn't know how to ask the right questions to get an actual answer.

Then Dean was gone, fled the restaurant, and Sam picked up his cell phone and hesitated another second before dialing Becky's number.

"Becky? Hey, it's Sam."

* * *

Dean pocketed the two key cards for their hotel room and left the main office of the Bonita Alta Suites Hotel in Palo Alto.

Sam was waiting for him in the car. The kid tried to hide it, but Dean could tell he was looking forward to seeing his old college friends. It was hard to imagine the life Sam had begun to forge while he was away from the family business, but fact was that Sam had. He hadn't been 'freaky demon hunter Sam Winchester, just with a normal girlfriend' in college. He had been normal, or at least faked it well enough that he fit in.

Sam had that ability. Dean didn't. Dean couldn't do normal if his life depended on it (and that applied even before he became a lycanthrope). It was a chameleon-like talent Sam had always had that Dean secretly envied sometimes.

Sam had wanted to leave the business because it had been an option for him. Dean never had that available to him, so he hunted.

Sam was excited about stepping back into the shadow of that almost-life he'd almost had, even if only for a few moments.

Dean wished he could leech some of that good mood from his brother, but there was no chance of that happening. When Sam had been invited to Palo Alto to see some old friends, Dean knew it was time. They were in California, Sam would be distracted, and their father was waiting impatiently for a call.

This was it. There weren't any more convenient excuses he could use to put off the inevitable.

'Except that you don't want to,' a voice in Dean's head chimed, and that voice sounded remarkably like Skye's. Dean hurt inside just thinking about what he was going to do. He wouldn't say his heart was breaking because that was a sissy-ass thing to say, but he definitely hurt.

He hadn't been lying to Sam in Nevada. He _had_ been dreaming about Skye. Painfully vivid, gut-wrenching dreams of them together, as people and as wolves, intimately and not. The taste of her, the smell of her, the touch of her, the sound of her voice and her laugh… in the dreams they were so real. It was like she was reaching out to him, making him remember why he loved what he had become. The bond they shared, the thing that connected them beyond death, in some strange sense almost like a child they had created, but instead the wolf. The permanent part of him that was permanently a part of her.

Not to mention being the wolf felt unbelievably great.

He _loved_ the wolf.

And he was going to lose it.

Skye was gone. Maybe if she were still alive, someone to share this with, he would fight his father to keep it.

Maybe. He didn't have any misgivings about the overbearing, grinding force that was John Winchester.

But he understood his father's position. This was something unnatural, freakish, hunt-worthy, and the only way to really be protected from its one day compromising him was to get rid of it. Hard as that would be, it was the responsible thing to do.

John Winchester would only see that. It didn't matter what Dean _wanted_, and Dean couldn't imagine swaying his dad to think otherwise. Before all else, John was a hunter.

And because John was a hunter first and everything else after that, the only way Dean could ever regain his father's trust or approval would be to scour out the inhuman in him. In Dean's world after Skye, on the hunt living the only life he'd ever known (what little he remembered of his first four years seemed like a dream), it was more important to assuage John and please him than for Dean to indulge himself in something so dangerous just because he liked it. That was selfish and crazy.

He had to have been crazy, being the wolf. _Enjoying_ it as he had.

Sam had enabled him in that respect. After Skye, as a lone wolf in an unfriendly world full of hunters, Dean had allowed himself the freedom of the run only on the full moon. It was something to look forward to, because there wasn't any fighting it on that night anyway so he might as well enjoy it.

Then Sam found out the truth and was all _understanding_ about it. It made Dean lose perspective. He let himself stop seeing it as a _thing_, as an affliction that he couldn't bring himself to regret (though he knew he should) and that he must endure one night a month. Sam made it normal. Natural. God forbid, he made it _beautiful_. Sam encouraged him to free the wolf. He made it so damn easy for Dean to give in and enjoy it. Dean got lost in it, in Sam's willing complicity to the whole lycanthrope deal.

And now Dean was paying for it. He had grown so attached when he should have known better, and now it was going to be ripped from him.

The shittiest part was, he knew he should have seen this coming. But he hadn't, because he hadn't wanted to.

When Dean left Sam in the fast food place to call his friend yesterday afternoon, Dean went outside and called John. He told his father they were in California, heading for Palo Alto. John said he was close and would meet him at the Sunspots Motel. It was their usual Palo Alto lodging. Dean and John had popped into Palo Alto frequently enough (to discreetly check on Sam) while Sam was in college that they had a usual place.

Dean deliberately chose any hotel _other_ than the Sunspots. He didn't want Sam spotting John's truck and getting suspicious and confrontational.

He wanted to keep Sam out of this. If Sam knew what Dean was going to do, what their _father_ was going to do… Sam would try to stop it. He'd fight with Dad, _again_, and he'd drag Dean into the middle of his personal war with John, _again_. He would make Dean choose between them, choose a side, John's or Sam's. Either way, Dean would be the bad guy. Dean couldn't keep doing it, couldn't keep being torn between the brother he would die to protect and the father he would sacrifice his life to have love him.

It would be easier done secretly while Sam was busy with his friends. When it could be Dean's fault. Sam might get mad at Dean for going behind his back, but that was fine. Being the brunt was easier than being the weapon his father and little brother used against each other.

He wanted to avoid another family blowout, but Dean also didn't want Sam to feel guilty for what had to be done. Sam had done so much to safeguard the wolf… Dean couldn't let Sam know what was going to happen until it was already done. He didn't want Sam to think he'd failed his brother. Sam couldn't think that if he never knew what was going to happen until after it was too late. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission and all that.

Without a word (honestly, it was hard to even think straight knowing what was coming), Dean got back in the car and drove them to a parking space in front of their allotted room. It was so clean and well-kept and expensive-looking compared to their usual ratty, economically-friendly choice of hotels.

Sam frowned at the hotel room door, obviously puzzled by Dean's choice, and said, "You know, there's a place on the other side of town, the Sunshine or something, that's a lot more our kind of place than this."

'And that's also where Dad is, and I don't want you knowing,' Dean thought immediately. "This is fine; we've already got the room."

Sam pursed his lips in thought, then shrugged and got out of the car. Dean followed suit, finding everything suddenly seemed impossibly heavy, from his feet to his jacket.

Maybe when part of him had been hollowed out, he'd feel lighter. Less likely to sink into the ground like an adventurer in quicksand.

As they took their stuff into the room and got situated, a routine that was so ingrained they could have done it in their sleep, Dean realized Sam had been talking. Dean tried to focus and follow enough that his wandering focus wasn't obvious.

"… I know it's not really your thing, but I think you should," Sam said and turned plaintive eyes on Dean.

Dean returned a blank look. He had no idea what Sam was talking about.

Sam glowered, taking Dean's ignorance for obstinacy. "Come on, man… they're my friends. I'd really like for you to meet them."

Oh. Dean faked a smirk. "Nah, I'd just blow your cover anyway."

Sam frowned. "This isn't a job, Dean. I'm not asking you to fake or playact anything. Just be _you_… or, you know, sorta close."

Dean shook his head. "Forget it, dude. Not only do I not do normal, I _definitely_ don't do babies."

The look Sam leveled at him was priceless. "You'll deal with monsters and demons, but you're afraid of a baby?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Two words, projectile vomit. But you have fun." Before Sam could argue further, Dean tossed Sam the car keys. Sam caught them and his eyes widened.

"What…"

"Take the car," Dean offered, trying to sound offhand about it.

Sam stared, slack-jaw. "Dean, are you feeling all right?"

'No!' Dean wanted to scream. 'No! I'm dying inside, Sammy!' But instead, he just cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah… why?"

Sam jingled the keys. "Because you just told me to take the car. _Your_ car. The car you barely let me touch to ride in."

"Well, I'm not _giving_ it to you, genius. I just thought you'd like to borrow it to go see that whoever she is."

"Becky," Sam provided for at least the fifth time.

"Whatever. Look, if you're going to act like Sam Winchester, average guy, do you really want to show up in a cab?"

"You could drop me off," Sam pointed out.

"And do what, circle the block five hundred times while you chit chat and clean up spit up? No thanks. Just take her, and if you put a single scratch in her, you're dead."

Sam eyed Dean suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"

Dean wanted to tell. He wanted to answer the one person who would almost understand. 'I'm going to kill myself, Sam… or at least the wolf, but damn does that feel like the most of me,' he wanted to say.

"Take a walk or something. Maybe check out some of the area."

Sam looked stricken. "Dean… you can't wolf out here, man. This isn't rural, backwater nowhere. This is college town, California. You'll be seen! I _don't_ want to have to pick you up from animal control."

The reminder of the wolf, the tease that he might be it one more time, was a lancing pain. He would have thought Sam cruel for bringing it up if he didn't know that Sam had no idea what was about to happen.

"Relax," Dean said, deadpan, "they wouldn't know to call you, anyway."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and I'm seriously thinking of getting you a collar with a tag that says 'if found, call Sam Winchester' on it."

'You'll never have to worry about that again,' Dean thought morosely. But what he said was, "You are _not_ putting a collar on me."

Sam smirked, finding the conversation amusing even if he didn't want to show that he did. He glanced down at the keys in his hand. His good mood slipped a little and he frowned. "You sure you won't come?"

"Positive."

"And you're _sure_ you want me to take the car?"

"Dude, the longer you pussy-foot around about it, the more I'm reconsidering," Dean griped.

"Okay, okay, I'm going." Sam offered a smile. He was excited again, back to eager about seeing his old friends. It was perverse, really, that Sam could be so psyched when Dean's whole world was about to fall apart.

"I'll see you later tonight," Sam said as he headed for the door.

When Sam opened the door to go, Dean almost stopped him. For a heartbeat, he almost called his brother back. He almost spilled his guts and told Sam everything.

For a split second, he almost wanted to take Sam up on the offer to run. Run from John Winchester.

But he didn't, and as he stood there mute he watched Sam leave.

When he was finally alone, his whole body seemed to fold. He made it to a bed and just fell. Each beat of his heart seemed hollow and lethargic. His lungs were lined with lead. He wanted to crawl into a dark hole and disappear. If resignation weren't so thick and absolute, he thought maybe he'd cry. Well, probably not, but if he were a lesser man and not Dean Winchester. If he were Sam, maybe.

He closed his eyes and thought of Skye. He thought of when he'd held her close, their mouths almost touching, and she'd whispered softly against his lips, 'I love you, Dean.'

He thought of her wolf, majestic and proud.

'I'm sorry,' he thought in abject misery, apologizing to what he could not say. Her memory, maybe. His wolf. Himself.

Then he opened his eyes, pulled out his phone, and called his dad.

"Dean?" John answered on the second ring.

Dean swallowed. "Yeah."

"You in town?"

"Yeah… just got in."

"Good. Well, you boys get on over here and let's do this," John said with his usual brusque authority. As if nothing in the world would _dare_ contradict or defy him.

Dean's heart was pounding. "Sam's not coming."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "Why?" John asked darkly, his voice edgy and savage. Dean knew what his dad was thinking; Sam was throwing some kind of fit in protest.

"I don't want him there," Dean answered resolutely.

That caused a few seconds of dead silence. Then John made a noncommittal noise and said, "All right. I'll see you in a few minutes, Dean. I'm in room twelve."

"I'm on my way," Dean said woodenly and hung up. For a moment he couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

When he could finally manage movement, he called a cab to come pick him up.

When the cabbie honked outside his door, Dean set his cell phone on the nightstand and stood slowly, as though his body had been swapped for that of an eighty year old man. Dean picked up his room key but left the cell phone. He didn't want Sam calling him in the middle of… it. Any break, any moment of distraction, and he might lose his resolve to go through with it.

He left the room hoping Sam wouldn't call and wondering what would be left of Dean Winchester when he saw his brother again.

To Be Continued…


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Sorry for the long delay in chapter updates… I've been out of town for a few days. I know it was an evil place to leave off!

* * *

Dean felt disconnected, like he was walking in a fog without sensation, without feeling, as he entered his father's room at the Sunspots Motel. John was poring over a spread of papers and an open book on the small room table. He turned to his son and smiled warmly. "Dean… hey, kiddo. How you holding up?"

Dean could only manage a shrug as he closed the door behind him.

"You ready to get this thing out of you?" John asked with a light of the man of action in his eyes.

He was talking about the wolf like it was a parasite. A possessing demon to be exorcised. Something evil to be destroyed.

'You're talking about _me_! You're going to destroy me, Dad!' he would have screamed if he could feel anymore. A pervasive numbness had set in, and Dean just didn't _anything_ anymore. He felt like he was dead already.

"What is it going to take?" Dean asked flatly.

"Well… you're not going to like it," John warned.

Dean felt a sick, twisted half-smile contort his features at that. If only his father knew.

John dug around in his things and pulled out a leather pouch amulet dangling from a rope. He held it up for Dean to see. It was adorned with a feather and short lengths of beads… it looked like a piece of faux-authentic Indian jewelry sold at a tourist trap anywhere in the American southwest. A peculiar and pungent smell was wafting up from it.

"What's that?" Dean asked because he was expected to.

"Essential piece of arsenal we'll need to do this." John dropped the amulet back on the table. "From the information I've gathered on this 'sickness' you have, it integrates into the host on a very fundamental level. Meaning it's going to be a real bitch to get out. Essentially, we have to invite a demon into you."

Dean knew that should have made him balk. He should have been appalled and railed at the mere suggestion. He should have at least voiced a concern. Instead he just waited for more. It was like they were talking about someone he had never met before. This wasn't going to be happening to him. He felt entirely detached.

John mistook Dean's silence as an indication of Dean's blind faith in John, like the good little soldier and obedient son Dean was. John seemed pleased with Dean's lack of objections, in any case. "Luckily, the one we need isn't going to be as nasty as the demons we'd normally deal with. There was a tribe of Native Americans, indigenous to this region – which is why it needed to be done in California – that had some kind of blood feud with lycanthropes way back in the day. They took their hate for them to the grave and beyond."

Dean didn't like the sound of them.

"The amulet will serve as a focal point, a kind of demon beacon, if you will. It's designed to attract the demon spirit of a shaman of this particular tribe that hated lycanthropes. In their own right, these Indian shamans were the hunters of their day. They fought the same unnatural forces we do, but with cruder tools.

"Anyway, we call forth this shaman spirit, let it possess you, and when it's in there it's going to know that wolf is in there, too." John smiled, almost wickedly. "This demon won't stand to share a host with that wolf. The demon spirit of the shaman will be more furious about the wolf in you than it will care about tormenting you. It will destroy the lycanthrope infection. Then, when you're cured of it, I exorcise the demon and that should do it. You'll be free."

Dean heard his own voice as though from a great distance. "How long will it take?"

John looked down at his research. "We should be able to get it done tonight, but I have to warn you, Dean. This won't be pretty. It's going to be extremely painful. When the demon and the lycanthrope are duking it out inside you, you'll feel like you're being torn apart. In a sense, you will be. The lycanthropy has been in you for years; it's had time to settle and dig in, and it won't go without a fight."

Dean nodded infinitesimally. The wolf wouldn't let him go without a fight or he wouldn't let the wolf go without a fight? Did the distinction really matter?

John frowned at Dean. "Son… you all right?"

Dean sighed. His father didn't want the answer to that question. "Let's just get this over with."

John nodded, in complete agreement, and gestured to the single bed in the room. "I've prepared the bed."

Dean gave John a quizzical look.

John shrugged ruefully. "You're going to be _possessed_, Dean. I have to restrain you."

Dean noticed them now, the straps that had been secured to the bed at the bedposts at each corner, four points to hold Dean down.

If he was still half alive, he would have made some crack about his father being a kinky son of a bitch.

Instead, Dean made his way to the bed, feeling like an observer outside of his own body. As he shed his jacket and got on the bed to let his father tie him down, he tried to imagine this same time tomorrow afternoon, when the wolf would be gone and it would just be him inside.

Dean couldn't imagine it. And more importantly, didn't want to.

* * *

Sam hated to admit it, but he felt out of place in Becky's house. It wasn't that she had a husband he'd never met or a baby on her shoulder that didn't fit with the Becky he used to know. It was just everything about it. The curtains on the windows, the clean carpet still striped from the path of the vacuum cleaner, the furniture that screamed wedding gifts, the smiles and the conversation and the stupid cat on the windowsill. It was all so _alien_.

Sam tried to pretend it wasn't. He hugged Becky and introduced himself to James and made all the appropriate noises of enthrallment upon seeing the newborn. It just felt so forced that Sam could almost feel his teeth grinding with the effort of looking like it wasn't insanely weird to him.

But he stuck it out and stayed when his first instinct had told him to bolt. Leave because this wasn't his life anymore. He hated that the dream was ruined, permanently tarnished, and to spite that ruin he stayed and faked it.

They talked, caught up on each other's lives (when it was Sam's turn, he lied). They talked about school. About Jess. That was awkward. Sam heard the way Becky remembered Jess, and he didn't remember her being so _ordinary_. He had known Jessica better than Becky did, he knew his memories of an extraordinary woman were accurate (that therefore it was Becky who had fallen short in keeping Jess alive in her memories true to the person she had been) but still, to have Jess painted as just average was unsettling.

Sam realized that despite the baby, the home, and the husband, he had changed more since Stanford than Becky had. She had added things, but essentially it was the same insular life she'd had before. Had probably always had and probably always would. Lives had not been saved and lost in the interim for her. Her actions didn't mean more to the world than the enrichment of her own little life.

It was how it was _supposed_ to be. Becky had everything Sam had tried so hard to have. And she had it with no effort on her part… no fighting tooth and nail to get it just to lose it in two short years.

Sam didn't want to feel resentful about that, but he did.

Why did Sam have to be the soldier and Becky the innocent to benefit from _his_ battle scars?

By the time Becky was offering to have him stay for dinner, Sam was ready to leave. It had been more disappointment than a cause for rejoicing to see Becky again. It only highlighted to him how different he was, how unfit he was for the normal life that she had inherited by his (and hunters like him) fighting the darkness without acknowledgment.

"Are you sure you won't stay?" Becky asked as Sam was making his gradual way toward the front door.

"Nah, thanks anyway, but I told Dean I'd meet up with him later for a bite to eat." She wouldn't know otherwise.

"You know, you could have him over, too. I'd love to meet this famous big brother of yours," she joked with a twinkle in her eye. Sam had told a few stories about his older brother back in college (only a few were appropriate for the telling with civilians), but they were enough that his group of friends got the gist of the man, the myth, the legend that was Dean Winchester.

Sam just smiled thinly, hoping it didn't look too forced. "We kind of had plans already, and besides, we were hoping to get an early start out of town tomorrow morning anyway," he hedged. The lies came easier than Sam thought they would.

Before, he had wanted Dean to meet his old friends, but that had changed over the course of the evening. Truthfully, though it made no sense, Sam didn't like the idea of Becky knowing Dean better than Jess did. Jess never got a chance to get to know Dean, and of anyone in his once-normal life, Sam would want to share his family with her. Not Becky.

"Oh… you're leaving so soon?" Becky looked disappointed.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. What can I say? Dean's a rolling stone," he faked a chuckle.

Becky shook her head. "It must be fun, being on the road all the time."

He doubted she would think so if she tried it. She was too much a settler. She might talk wistfully of the life of a nomad, but she wouldn't like it if it was her life.

No room for a baby and husband in the trunk next to the guns.

"It was great seeing you again, Becky," Sam said, and part of him actually meant it. Seeing her again made him remember the good days at Stanford. Days he could never recover or relive, but good for the memories.

"You too, Sam. Take care."

"I will."

* * *

On the way back to the Bonita Alta Suites, Sam wondered how he had ever thought he could be part of that normal world. It had seemed possible to him once, but had he just been deluding himself?

Maybe. Jess had made it seem so _doable_.

Sam smiled to himself at the irony. That was something Jessica and Skye had in common. They had been enough for each Winchester boy to believe they could be part of a world unlike the one they had grown to know.

But Dean had probably had a better chance of making it work, if only Skye had lived.

The thought of Skye made Sam frown.

He was worried about Dean. It seemed that in just the last two days an unshakable sorrow had gripped his older brother. Dean said he was dreaming about Skye. Sam believed that; he knew only too well how painful dreams of lost loved ones could be. But _why_ was Dean dreaming about her now?

Sam wished there was something he could do to help, but Dean had made it clear he wanted to be left alone. Sam hated watching Dean suffer in silence, but he didn't know how to help him.

He hated to think the answer might be time. Maybe it was no more complicated than that Dean had hit a rough patch and he needed to work his way through it. They might have met someone that reminded Dean of Skye, passed a landmark that sparked a memory, or even missed an anniversary of some kind that made Dean remember her. Grief had a way of popping back up like that.

The hotel room at the Bonita Alta Suites was empty when Sam got back. He tossed the keys to the perfectly unscratched Impala on the room table and made his way to the bathroom to take a leak. He washed his hands and came back into the room where he unpacked his laptop and started the boot up process. He thought he'd surf some local news websites, look for anything that caught his hunter's eye. Maybe finding a hunt would be just the thing to get Dean's mind off his own demons.

While waiting for his computer to power up, Sam flopped down on the bed farthest from the door and grabbed the remote off the nightstand.

He didn't turn it on.

For a second Sam lay frozen in place, remote in hand and legs crossed at the ankles. He was listening, waiting, feeling out the room.

Something didn't feel right.

It was the kind of dread-filled sensation most people would shrug off and ignore. A hunter wouldn't.

Sam put the remote on the bed and sat up. He frowned and tried to pinpoint _what_ exactly felt off.

No strange noises. No sudden sensations of cold. No goose bumps pricking at his skin to hint at ghosts.

Still… _something_ was wrong.

Sam stood and moved around the room, looking for anything out of place that might explain his strange feeling. He checked the drawers for hex bags, studied the walls for any signs of painted-over dark arts symbols. He even turned on the lights to see if they would flicker.

When he turned on the lights over the nightstand, his eyes fell on Dean's cell phone lying inert beside the advertisement about free movie channels.

A cold knot formed in Sam's stomach. That was it. Somehow he knew that whatever sense of foreboding had claimed him, it had to do with Dean.

Where was Dean? Why hadn't he taken his cell phone with him?

Sam looked toward the door. There was no sign of a break in. If Dean had simply gone out, he would have taken his phone with him.

Sam picked up Dean's cell phone and went to the recent calls menu.

His throat tightened when he saw two recently received calls from their dad's number.

Their father had called Dean two days ago, when Dean had started acting weird.

Sam knew Dean had ditched Sam handily and left to meet up with Dad.

_Shit_.

He didn't know what John wanted with Dean, but it couldn't be good. It had to be about the wolf… it _had_ to be.

What was Dean going to do? Sam's heart was pounding with sudden terror. He didn't know, and that was even more frightening.

Sam bolted for the door, snatching up the car keys on the way out. He didn't know where they were, but Sam _had_ to find them.

To Be Continued…


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: This is wickedly, evilly short… and I know it. It really isn't intentional! It's just that the chapter after this is really long.

* * *

"Hang in there, son… you're going to be okay," John's voice rumbled gently.

His father sounded a thousand miles away. Dean knew only now, only his agony. His body was soaked with sweat. John had cut off his son's shirt when Dean's temperature spiked at levels near the limit for seizures and brain damage. It didn't matter. Dean still felt like he was burning.

The Native American amulet was lying fiery on his chest. It felt like a burning coal laid against his skin.

Every inch of him was burning. Inside and out, fire and boiling blood, searing him.

It was _in_ him. A demon, dark and angry. He'd felt it force its way into him, _invited_ in by John's incantation whether Dean wanted it or not, invasive and unrelenting. Then it filled him with its sick rage. Pure, twisted, crazed fury rolling in him, coiling tight within the confines of his skin. Scraping him raw inside. Attacking him. Attacking the wolf.

He felt the war raging. The demon lashing out, licking molten strikes against Dean and the wolf. Dean felt the wolf's pain, lived it, owned it. He twisted against the onslaught, pulled uselessly at the straps holding him flat on his back. The wolf was fighting back, teeth snapping at blackness. It was a battlefield, a war zone, and the ground was Dean. It felt like they were standing on his nerve endings, each nerve laid fine and taut to make a flooring, and every touch hurt. Every step of the wolf and demon took reverberated through Dean with a wave of agony.

He wanted to die. He thought he would. He felt it. If the wolf died, he'd die with it. No way could he survive this.

The demon lunged and the wolf took a horrific blow.

Dean's body arched away from the bed and a strangled cry ripped from his throat.

"Shhh," John said again, from his safety so far from the fray. "Open your mouth, Dean."

Dean did, but not to obey John. To scream.

A worn strap of leather was shoved between his teeth.

"Bite down on this," John instructed softly. There may have been a hand brushing through Dean's hair, but he couldn't tell. He couldn't feel anything but the pain. "Don't scream, Dean… someone will hear."

Dean closed his teeth fiercely around the leather. He felt his teeth sink into the strap. His jaw muscles ached from the force of his bite. Tears stung his eyes. He struggled to bring in enough air fast enough through his nose to breathe.

A muffled scream tore from him and he threw back his head. Fire raced through him, burned him, scorched him, disfigured him from the inside out. He'd be a shell when this was over. The wolf would be gone, then the demon, and there'd be nothing left.

The demon and wolf flew at each other, clashed in mortal combat. Dean bucked and screamed into the leather in his teeth.

"Hang in there, Dean… you're going to be okay… just a little longer…"

It wasn't how Dean imagined dying.

To Be Continued…


	19. Chapter 19

Sam broke the speed limit as he raced toward the Sunspots. The place he told Dean was their kind of place, the place Dean wouldn't take them to for reasons that had seemed so threadbare at the time.

John had to be there. It was all Sam could think as he floored the gas.

The Sunspots was a fleabag motel at the edge of the bad part of town. The parking lot was practically deserted when Sam whipped the Impala into it.

Almost deserted, but Sam saw John's black truck immediately.

Sam slammed to a stop near the truck, taking up two spaces carelessly, threw the gear shift into park, and he all but flew out of the car. He ran to the door directly in front of the truck and pounded on it.

Nothing. He tried the door knob, but it was locked.

Sam pounded again, his fist beating in time with his racing heart. "_Dad_! It's me! Open the damn door!"

Still no answer. Sam glared at the faded numbers on the door, '_12_' Maybe it wasn't the room. Could John have parked on the opposite side of the motel than where his room was? It was the kind of paranoid thing he would do. Would Sam have to go pounding on every door in the place? Could the front office worker be bullied into giving him the room number?

Sam stopped his pounding and put his ear to the door. He forced himself to calm down and listen.

It was almost impossible at first to hear past the sound of his own heart hammering in his head. Then he heard a muffled cry on the other side of the door.

That was good enough.

Sam stepped back, hauled off, and sent a bone-jarring kick into the door.

The jamb shattered, wood splintered, and the door flew open.

Sam stepped into the room and gaped in shock.

Dean was half-naked, tied to the bed and writhing in agony. He had a gag in his mouth to stave off the screaming. John looked up from his place at Dean's side on the far side of the bed. He set eyes on Sam and his gaze flashed pure fire at Sam's conspicuous intrusion.

Sam spared his father only half a second of his attention. His eyes focused on Dean. It looked like he was being _tortured_.

"_What the hell are you doing to him_?!" Sam demanded.

John's expression was furious. "Stay out of this, Sam. It's almost over."

Sam strode into the room angrily, making a bee line for his bound brother.

"Get away from him!" Sam yelled.

John rose from his seat, a wall of ex-Marine fury. "Back off, Sam!"

Sam came up alongside the bed and reached for Dean.

Dean's body was drenched in sweat, shaking from pain or exhaustion or both. His arms were taut, in a constant attempt to pull free from the ties holding him down. Tears were tracking down Dean's temples from his eyes clenched tightly shut. He was gagged, choking for air around a strap of leather between his bared teeth.

"Sam…" John growled and began to round the bed.

Sam took Dean's face in his hands and turned Dean's head toward him. "Dean," he called desperately.

Dean opened his eyes. Sam flinched in shock. They were black. Demon black. Then they flashed gold. The wolf. Then the black again. Dean cried out and his body jerked.

John closed a hand around Sam's arm roughly and began to pull him away. "Don't interfere," John barked.

Sam rounded on John. "What the hell happened?! Is he _possessed_?"

John narrowed his eyes at Sam. "It was the only way."

Sam's jaw dropped open as his brother bucked again on the bed. "_You did this to him_?!"

The resolute glower on John's face was Sam's answer.

Appalled, Sam shoved John away furiously.

John stumbled back a pace then stalked toward Sam again. "It's under control, Sam. Letting that demon in him was the only way to get rid of the lycanthropy."

"_WHAT_?!" Sam cried, so blindly furious his vision began to tunnel.

Dean whimpered brokenly, too weak anymore to scream.

Sam spun back to his brother and took Dean's face in his hands again. Dean's face, expression twisted in agony, was hot and sweaty in Sam's palms.

"Dean…" Sam croaked.

Dean opened his eyes again. For a second, they were Dean's eyes. They were swimming with tears. And they were begging him.

Sam took the leather out of Dean's mouth.

"Sam!" John barked angrily. He grabbed the back of Sam's neck, as if he were a disobedient six-year-old all over again.

Sam turned fighting. He punched his father, fist flying as hard and fast as he could. Sam was no light weight kid anymore. The strike whipped John's head around, and he went down in a stunned heap on the floor.

John was dazed, but not unconscious. Sam wouldn't have more than a few seconds. He turned resolutely back to Dean, took his brother's face in his hands once more, and met Dean's eyes again.

Free of the gag that had silenced him, Dean whispered, his voice breaking, "Sammy… _please_…"

Sam's grip on Dean tightened, and he began to recite the words as fast as he could form them. "_Espiritus amundi_…" He knew the incantation by heart. He could rattle it off in record time.

"… _Sam_… _stop_…" John struggled behind him, fighting to get his wits back around him enough to stop his youngest son.

Sam didn't stop. Didn't let himself so much as pause for breath. He spouted off the exorcism incantation in a frenzied rush.

Dean screamed, the sound raw as it ripped from his throat. Then it was black smoke, pouring out of his mouth and into the air. It hadn't taken long to dislodge the demon. Dean had obviously been fighting it from the start for all he was worth.

Then it was over. The smoke was gone and Dean fell back, limp and spent on the bed.

Sam took a deep breath of relief.

John grabbed Sam and hauled him around. Sam, too focused on Dean to defend himself, was slammed into the wall and held there by John's bear-like stature.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?!" John yelled in his face.

"You were killing him!" Sam screamed back, literally seeing red. What _their own father_ had done to Dean…

"I was _saving_ him! That was the only way to kill the wolf in him."

"You can't do that!"

John looked at Sam like he was something repugnant, less than nothing, worthless. "Do you have any idea what you've done? It was almost over! Now Dean is going to have to go through all of that _again_."

"No, he won't! I won't let you!" Sam snaked his arms up between John's, gave himself just enough room to push John back, bring up a foot, and kicked John halfway across the room.

John staggered back a few steps then righted himself, surprised by how much of a fight Sam wanted to put up but ready to answer force for force. John Winchester was not a man to lose the upper hand with his boys. He faced Sam, opponent against opponent.

For a second, they weren't father and son. They were just two men with the same degree of stubbornness butting heads, neither willing to relent or surrender, each certain their position was the correct one.

Sam started to advance toward John. If this was going to be a brawl, so be it. He'd fight their father if that's what it took to protect Dean.

But Dean stopped Sam dead in his tracks. Dean gagged and began to throw up. Bound starfish-like on his back, he couldn't roll to keep himself from choking.

In a second flat, Sam forgot about John. He ignored his father completely when only a second ago John had been Sam's target.

Sam went quickly to Dean and untied one of his brother's arm. He rolled Dean on to his side as Dean vomited on the bed, body shaking and weak. Sam curled his arm around Dean's shoulder, holding him up from rolling into the mess or over on to his back.

Sam found that he was shaking almost as badly as Dean was.

God, what if he'd been a few minutes later?

Before long, Dean's stomach was empty, and he was left to weakly dry heave. Sam rubbed his brother's drenched back helplessly, trying to end the wrenching muscle contractions wracking Dean's body.

Sam started when he saw John moving from the corner of his eye. He braced for another confrontation, but John wasn't coming close to fight. He was quietly untying Dean's feet.

Sam reached across Dean's crumpled form and untied his other hand. Dean's limbs fell like dead weight on the mattress. Dean had stopped heaving and was lying still but for his ragged breathing.

Sam touched the soaked back of Dean's neck in worry. "Dean? You done hurling?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered and he made a cracked noise.

"Dean…" John began, but Sam shot his father a murderous look.

"_Don't_," Sam snarled. He began to roll Dean on to his back again, toward himself and away from John on the other side of the bed. "Just _don't_, Dad."

When Dean was flat on his back once more, Sam took Dean's face in his hands again, the same way Dean had cupped Sam's so many times when the youngest Winchester was hurt. "Dean… hey, you with me?" he asked gently.

Dean's eyelids moved again.

Sam swallowed his rising fear. "Please answer me, Dean… are you okay?"

"…awesome…" Dean rasped.

Sam smiled. Then he frowned in concern. "What about… is it still…"

Dean forced his eyes open, little more than slits with slivers of hazel-green, and met Sam's gaze. For a brief second, Dean's eyes flashed gold.

Sam sagged in relief. "Thank god…"

Dean swallowed with obvious effort. "… thank you, Sammy…"

Sam tensed. He knew John would hear that. He knew _Dean_ knew John would hear.

But it didn't matter right now. As far as Sam was concerned, _John_ didn't matter at that moment.

"Damnit, Dean… what were you thinking?" he asked, but it was rhetorical. He knew the way his brother thought. He knew what Dean would do, what he would endure, when it was an order from their father.

Dean closed his eyes to avoid the disapproval. The shame. John.

Sam glanced over at the chair lying on its side by the wall. He didn't even remember knocking that over. Sam went over to the chair, righted it, and dragged it as close the bedside as he could.

If there was one dance the Winchesters knew without need for conversation, it was how to take care of a wounded family member.

John helped Sam lever Dean off the bed and into the chair long enough for John to strip the soiled sheets off the bed. He threw them in a heap outside the motel room door while Sam eased Dean back into bed. Sam went to the sink and fetched Dean a plastic cup of water. He helped Dean take a few swallows. John took a wet, dingy beige washcloth and wiped the sheen of sweat from Dean's brow and chest.

Dean lay submissive to it all, body wrung and next to useless after the war that had been waged for possession of it.

John and Sam had fallen into a strange, wordless tandem taking care of Dean. They knew when the silent tending to Dean was over, there would be words exchanged that no one wanted to hear.

Sam, with a scowl of disgust, took the Native American amulet off of Dean and threw it across the room.

"Sam…" John intoned lowly.

Here it was. Showdown at the Winchester corral.

Sam started to stand to face his father when Dean, with surprising strength, reached out and grabbed Sam's wrist. Sam knelt down again and looked his brother in the eye. Dean was searching Sam's eyes for something. Absolution maybe. Understanding. Sam didn't know why his brother was looking. Dean had that from him. Had it from the start.

"I tried…" Dean said weakly.

Sam winced. "Yeah… and you shouldn't have."

"Dad…" Dean protested.

"Fuck Dad," Sam snapped. He could practically _feel_ John stiffen only a few feet away.

Dean managed to crack a smile. "Been nice knowing you, dude."

Sam chuckled and gently pulled his wrist free from Dean's grasp. With cold resolution, he stood and looked toward their father.

John was staring at him, the disapproval radiating from him like a cold tide, wave after icy wave crashing against the stone that was Sam Winchester. Sam didn't care. That look used to take him out at the knees, but he just didn't care anymore. John Winchester had pushed Sam too far.

"Outside," John growled, and he turned and left the room, not even waiting to see if Sam would follow.

Sam did, at his own pace. He checked on Dean one last time (who had fallen asleep) before he went after his dad.

When he caught up to John pacing an angry circle in the virtually deserted parking lot, he was half expecting it when John grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt and pulled him in until they were standing nose to nose. Sam remembered the days when John had looked down at Sam when he tore him apart. Now John had to look up, but it didn't diminish his power.

Sam steeled himself, unafraid.

"I ought to beat the shit out of you for what you just did," John growled.

"You can try," Sam returned evenly, his voice dangerously calm.

John shoved him away in disgust. "What the hell were you thinking? I was _helping_ your brother."

"No, Dad, you were _killing_ him."

"I was killing that _thing_ inside him," John snapped. "Damnit, Sam, _you_ of all people should know the difference!"

"That _thing_?!" Sam countered hotly. "Dad, it's not a thing inside him. It's _him_. That was _Dean_ you were tearing apart."

"It was the wolf."

"Dean _is_ the wolf!"

"Keep your voice down," John warned lowly.

Sam complied (because in that, John was right), but he didn't back off. "You can't separate them, Dad. It's who he is now."

"They can be separated," John insisted.

"He doesn't want that! God, Dad, did you ever _ask_ him if this was what he wanted?"

"Of course I did."

"Did you? Or did you just assume that Dean wanted whatever you said he wanted?"

John blinked, began to frown, and remained silent. Sam could practically _hear_ Dean's hoarse 'thank you' to Sam only a moment ago haunting John's memory, making the seasoned hunter question and doubt. In his father's silence, Sam knew he had his answer to his question. He'd expected as much.

"Have you _ever_ cared about what either of us _wants_?" Sam asked angrily.

John crowded into Sam's personal space to hiss, "This isn't the same as your little tantrum about going to college. This is about what's happened to your brother. He's not _human_, Sam."

"No," Sam agreed, "he's _better_."

John sneered. "You can't honestly believe that."

"I do," Sam insisted stubbornly. "And Dean does, too. You might know that if you took a second to _talk_ to him, to ask him what he wants before you tried to pull the wolf out of him."

"He can't stay that way," John pointed toward the door, toward the room where they'd left Dean.

"Yes, he can," Sam said darkly.

John studied Sam closely for a moment. He didn't like what he saw. "I expected better from you," John said.

Once upon a time, that might have crushed Sam. But not anymore. Not now. Not after what their father had done to Dean.

"I expected more from you, but then, that was always my problem, wasn't it? Expecting you to be a father who wants to see his children happy instead of an overbearing commanding officer keeping his troops in line. But our happiness never meant anything to you, did it, Dad? All you've ever cared about is that demon that killed Mom."

John hit him. It was fast and surprising. Sam stepped back from the blow, more angry than hurt.

"I'm used to your selfishness, Sam," John growled, "but Dean isn't like you. Don't lay your shit on him. He isn't you."

Sam spit the taste of blood from his mouth. "You don't know him like you think you do, Dad. You don't know either of us. You never cared to. You never tried."

"I'm not going to listen to this," John grumbled and tried to stalk past Sam.

Sam caught him by the arm. "Then _ask_ him, Dad. Go in there and ask Dean what _he_ wants. I won't say another word."

John studied Sam a moment, then some of the tension left his body. Determination set into his eyes. He shrugged off Sam's hand and walked back to the motel room door. Sam mutely followed.

The broken door was easy to push open. Dean was sleeping just as they'd left him. Sam would have left him alone to rest, but John had to have his answers.

Sam closed the door as best he could while John went to the bed and shook Dean. "Dean… wake up."

Dean grumbled but didn't stir.

"Wake up, Dean," John said again in that voice Sam knew so well from their childhood. It was the commanding officer Winchester.

Dean obeyed and groggily opened his eyes. When he realized he was staring up at his father, his expression froze. Dean scanned the room and his eyes stopped when he spotted Sam.

"Dean… how you doing?" John asked.

Dean returned his eyes to his father. "Been better."

"I'll bet." John frowned. "Dean… I want to ask you something, and it's important that you give me an honest answer."

Dean was visibly put on edge by that. He struggled weakly into a sitting position propped against the headboard. "Okay…" he said warily.

John stared closely at Dean. "Do you _want_ to get rid of the wolf?"

Dean paled and his lips tightened.

Sam wanted to jump in and lend his voice, but this had to be Dean's answer. Dean's answer and only Dean's. Their father would never believe it any other way.

"Dean…" John ordered when there was no immediate reply.

Dean dropped his gaze to his lap. "No," he whispered, so lowly Sam could barely tell Dean had made a sound.

"What?" John asked. Maybe he hadn't heard, or maybe he just couldn't believe it.

Dean looked up miserably. "No, Dad… I… I don't _want_ to lose the wolf."

John had no response for that. He stood staring down at his son a long time. Shocked, no doubt. Then he turned and looked at Sam. His expression was unreadable.

Without a word, he brushed past Sam and went out the door. They heard the truck door slam shut and the engine turn over. Neither brother felt the right to breathe until, finally, they heard the truck leaving the parking lot.

Sam felt a rod of tension in his spine loosen and he went over to the bed. Dean looked lost.

Sam sat down beside him and sighed. "I'm sorry, man."

Dean nodded faintly. "He hates me," Dean said in a small voice.

Sam shook his head. "He doesn't know what he thinks right now. But he doesn't hate you. Doesn't understand, maybe."

Dean looked reproachfully at Sam. "To a hunter, that's the same as hating something."

Sam winced. He wouldn't speak of what John might be thinking about his oldest son anymore. It was too ugly to bear. Instead, Sam asked the question burning in his mind. "How could you go through with that, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. Maybe if that demon had finished what it started… but I can't do that again, Sam. I _can't_."

"And you won't. Dad tries it and I'll shoot him."

Dean's lips twitched in a humorless smirk. "No, you won't."

"You don't think so?" Sam countered calmly, confidently.

Dean looked up at him then, studying Sam's expression. He obviously saw something in there that scared him. "Sam…"

Sam lifted a single eyebrow, as though to ask 'what?'

Dean looked away, uneasy and rattled. "Look… can we get out of here?"

"You feel up to that?"

Dean shrugged. "Not really, but I don't want to be here."

"Okay." Sam helped Dean to the car and drove him back to their own hotel. They didn't leave a note for John on where they'd gone or how to find them. Dean didn't say anything about just leaving without word, and Sam didn't care.

To Be Continued…


	20. Chapter 20

"How is he?"

Sam turned at the sound of his father's voice, both surprised and not that he had finally shown up.

John had been completely silent since yesterday when he walked out after Dean's confession. Sam didn't try calling their father. He stood by his words months ago. If John Winchester couldn't handle Dean's new identity, they didn't need him.

Sam had left their room the following morning to get him and his brother breakfast. Sam was paying for the foil-wrapped breakfast burritos when John came up behind him.

Sam calmly accepted his change from the cashier, gathered up the paper bag with the breakfast food, and turned to his father with no hint of warmth. "Wiped out."

John silently picked up the cardboard holder with two cups of coffee off the counter and followed Sam out of the restaurant.

Sam had walked to a diner two buildings over from their hotel. When he and John were walking through the parking lot, Sam added, "He slept most of yesterday when we got back to our room."

John still said nothing.

"He turned into the wolf once," Sam said casually, as though it were as little as discussing the weather. "Just to make sure what you'd done to him hadn't damaged the wolf."

John faltered but still didn't speak.

"You'll be glad to know you didn't cause any permanent damage," Sam said haughtily.

"It wouldn't have been _damage_ for the wolf to be gone," John argued.

"Yes, it would have been," Sam insisted. "That's what you don't get, Dad."

"That Dean _wants_ to be like this? No, I don't get that. How can he do this to himself?"

Sam stopped walking and turned to face his father. "You haven't _wanted_ to understand. You don't see him the way I do, Dad. As the wolf. Happy. Dean is happy, you know that? When you're not busting his chops about what he's become, he's the happiest I've ever seen him."

John looked down at the cups he was carrying.

Sam sighed. Indignation was replaced with sadness. Sam had learned to dismiss John and his opinions years ago, but Dean still wanted their father's approval.

"Is it so impossible for you to accept this? It's what Dean wants," Sam pleaded, not for his sake, but for Dean's.

John sighed. "What happened yesterday… I won't do that to him again. Not when I know he doesn't want me to. But I don't know if I can ever understand it. I'm going to need time."

Sam supposed they would have to be satisfied with John's vow not to try to tear out the wolf against Dean's will. He began walking again and John, sullen and silent, followed.

Sam reached the room he shared with Dean and slid in the key card. When he opened the door, he saw Dean was out of bed, riffling through his bag with his back to the door.

"Breakfast," Sam announced as he entered, John close on his heels.

Dean spoke without turning, "Sammy, first forest we find on our way out of here, we have to stop. I won't feel right in my skin again until I get to be the wolf for more than a few-" Dean stopped cold when he turned and saw his father.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey, Dean."

Dean cut a look at Sam, who moved to the side of the room and hopefully out of the way. This was a conversation that needed to happen between John and Dean, for better or worse.

"Dad," Dean finally returned woodenly.

John stared at Dean a long moment. Probably trying to figure out the boy he always thought he knew backward and forward.

Sam could feel the tension in the room. Usually, this kind of Winchester family unrest was his doing. It was strange to not be the eye of the storm for once.

John set the coffee down on a nearby dresser and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. "Look, Dean… I can't say I understand, but if this it what you want… I just want you to know I won't try to get it out of you. Not until you change your mind."

Dean stiffened. "I won't change my mind."

John looked pained by that admission. "Well, if you ever do… I'll keep the amulet, and the incantation to call the shaman spirit. So, you know… that's always an option."

Dean didn't respond to that.

"So…" John tried to sound casual, "where are you boys headed now?"

Recalling Dean's aborted words when they first walked in, Sam answered, "The woods first. Then, who knows."

John eyed Dean critically.

Dean averted his eyes.

John nodded. "Right."

The silence that fell was almost maddeningly.

John was the one to break it. "Listen, boys?"

Both sons looked at their father.

John frowned. "You two look out for each other, okay?"

Usually, John bade Dean to watch out for Sam, the little brother. This time, the order was given to both.

"We always do, Dad," Dean said.

John nodded. "Well, I should be hitting the road." He turned to go but stopped, his hand frozen on the doorknob. He looked back at Dean, hesitant.

"Dad?" Dean asked carefully.

John considered his words a long time before speaking. "Can I see it?"

Dean blinked, surprised, and shot a questioning look over at Sam. Sam was just as startled. He would not expect their father to want to see the very thing in Dean he reviled. Could he actually be asking because he wanted to try and see Dean the way Sam described him? It seemed like hoping for too much from through and through hunter John Winchester.

John offered a one-shouldered shrug. "The only time I've seen… it… you were bleeding and… I didn't know it was…" John smirked sickly and gave a dismissive shake of his head. "Never mind." He turned back to the door.

"Wait," Dean called out.

John froze and turned slowly back to Dean.

Dean stood stock still a moment, then he took off his flannel shirt.

Sam put down the bag of burritos and stepped closer to Dean. He didn't know why, but he felt like he should be nearby for support… or backup.

Dean peeled off his t-shirt. John watched, morbidly fascinated.

Sam sat on the end of Dean's bed as Dean kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks.

John looked uncomfortable when Dean moved to stepping out his jeans and underwear. Sam would have laughed under any other circumstances. He was so used to this by now that he didn't flinch. And even _if_ it still bothered him, he wouldn't so much as bat an eye in front of John. He had a point to make.

Naked, Dean knelt on the ground, in contact with the carpet by the balls of his feet and the tips of his fingers.

He lowered his head toward his chest purposefully.

When he lifted his eyes to John again, they were the gold eyes of the wolf.

John drew back a step and stared.

Dean, the wolf, looked up solemnly at his father. Sam knew the intense look of the wolf that was now leveled at John. It was the wolf's power, its grace, its natural place in the universe, all contained in its golden eyes. Sam wondered how John could see the breathtaking animal and think it wrong.

Dean took half a step toward John.

Like a reflex, John took half a step back.

Dean stopped cold in his tracks and looked long and hard at his father. Sam scowled at John, knowing neither his brother nor his father was paying attention to him. Did John _actually_ think Dean was at all dangerous? Or was it just the hunter that John was to his very core making him retreat?

If so, Sam supposed they should count themselves lucky John hadn't pulled a weapon.

John's expression grew taut when he realized what he'd done. So it had been automatic. That was better than consciously recoiling from his son. But still, it was too late to take it back.

Giving up on approaching their father, Dean jumped up on the bed and padded across the mattress over to where Sam sat. Sam, as always, glanced at the gold amulet hanging around Dean's neck. The reminder of the man that was in the wolf.

Dean stood by Sam's shoulder as both sons leveled their father with an expectant look. Brown-green hazel and gold eyes locked on John Winchester, both stares saying 'this is how things are, Dad… what are you going to do about it?'

John finally nodded. Maybe he understood, maybe he didn't. It didn't matter anymore. It didn't hinge on John's approval. "Well, um… be careful… boys."

With one last assessing look at Dean in wolf form, John left.

Sam sighed, the tension that had kept his spine locked ramrod straight dissipating, and Dean looked toward him.

Sam offered a faint smile. "He'll come around."

Dean's golden gaze was piercing.

Sam smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "Let's get out of here."

Some of the intensity lifted from the wolf's eyes, and Dean's tail swayed in a hint of a wag.

END

* * *

A/Ns: So that's it, fellow SPN fans, the end of Wild by Skye. I hope you enjoyed it.

While I was writing this fic, I made a video to go with it, so for those of you nearly as geeky as I am who might be interested in seeing it, I have it posted on my LJ.

I usually do not do this, but I have two questions for you guys. One is because I am merely curious. The second is because if you want it, you got it.

One - I'd really like to know what you guys thought of Skye. As I said before, women in the SPN fandom don't fair well, and I have this theory that only the writer of OC female characters in SPN fic ever truly like them. Be brutally honest with me, I can take it... did you hate her?

Two - I couldn't leave the Skyeverse (as Sierra Phoenix dubbed it) alone. I had just too much fun in it, and the Muse wouldn't walk away. I wrote several short stories in the Skyeverse and wondered if anyone besides me was interested. I guess this could tie in to question number one - if I'm the only one who likes Skye, it may be I'm the only one who cares for more of the Skyeverse!

LJ: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot)com


	21. Chapter 21

Howdy, Skyeverse readers!

First of all, thanks for reading. I hope you liked it (and if you read this far, I'll have to assume that you did).

In case you happened to miss the author's note that covered this earlier in the fic, here's what this little add-on to the story is all about: I finished Wild by Skye and found I could not leave the 'verse alone. So sue me, I think lycan!Dean/wolf!Dean is hot! So, rather than leave well enough alone, I started writing random ficlets that occurred before and after the main story in the timeline of the Skyeverse.

Those fics can be found here on this website, just look under my profile. Of course, they won't be in chronological order, so in this add-on I will update the information as ficlets are posted so you can always come here and find out where the latest ficlet falls in the timeline. Fics that are listed at the top will be earliest in the timeline, fics listed at the end fall later in the timeline.

All fics are written by me unless otherwise noted.

SKYEVERSE:

Meeting Skye

Tasting Skye

Knowing Skye

Skye's Barely

Trusting Skye

Sentencing of Skye

Dean and Skye (found only at LJ community due to mature content)

Losing Skye

Mourning Skye

**WILD BY SKYE**

Skye Smile

The Memory of Skye

- Red Skye in the Morning (by Beloved-Stranger). set within the Memory of Skye

- Beneath a Starry Skye (by Beloved-Stranger), sequel to Red Skye in the Morning

Warm Like Skye

Faire Skye

And now…

You asked for it, you got it! After the response to the poll question 'would anyone be interested in a website for the Skyeverse' came back with a prevailing 'yes', my techno-friend has done just that.

All of the fics listed above can be found on this site, as well as fics omitted from ff(dot)net due to a more mature content rating, videos, fanart, and anything else that might come to mind. I hope everyone checks it out and enjoys!

Link: community(dot)livejournal(dot)com/skyeverse/

(dot)=period


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